


Silver and Gold

by emthefirst



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Bisexuality, Interspecies Relationship(s), Multi, Past Abuse, Polyamory, Shameless Smut, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2020-10-05 13:30:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 49
Words: 142,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20489678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emthefirst/pseuds/emthefirst
Summary: This is a LONG one - about Drifter's gradual involvement with one of the heroes of the Red War, and the way they become part of his life over time. A lot of the chapters stand alone, so feel free to dip in and out.If you liked it, let me know! And if you hated it - let me know that too, all feedback is more than welcome.





	1. Target acquired

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to all the readers who've left kudos and comments - thank you all so much for your feedback. I'm delighted that this little fic is bringing you all so much pleasure, and your engagement encourages me to think about where the story and the characters are going much more carefully than I did when it was just a silly daydream and some rough notes.
> 
> People who take the time to let writers know that they've liked their work, you are the best people.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drifter doesn't have time for romance - or friendships, or partnerships, or any kind of human contact that isn't directly related to preparing for the next Apocalypse. That's just how it is, has been since forever. But this guardian ... turns out to be too interesting to ignore.

He can’t remember when he first saw the guardian. The tower is full of them these days, to and fro collecting bounties and rewards, crowding around the vendors and the Vanguard - heh, even crowding into his dingy basement to sign up for Gambit and compete for the honour of doing him a favour. Too many to faithfully recall every first encounter, anyway.

He keeps his eyes open, of course, you have to in his line of work. He sees who hangs back, who pushes forward to grab the hardest challenges and the biggest prizes. Who comes back week in week out, and who appears once in a blue moon between patrols and missions. The smooth, elegant warlocks with their carefully coordinated robes, the hunters with occasional once-shining exotic armour pieces deliberately scuffed to dull camouflage, the heavily-armoured titans bulked up to twice their natural size in metallic plate. He watches them all, cataloguing them in his head. Who can he use? Who has wants and needs that he can manipulate? Who’s a threat? Who has knowledge that he needs to extract? He has them all ranked and filed ready for the day he needs them. The day is coming, and not a night passes that he doesn’t wake up sweating about that.

But this one; this one somehow escaped the cataloguing. They’re just … around, as he gradually becomes aware. Not at the front of the pack, or right at the rear, but somewhere in the general mass of the middle. Sometimes alone, sometimes with a friend or a Fireteam. Always in the same scuffed, colourless armour; nothing flashy, all intact and well-maintained, but clearly well-used. From the lightness of their eyes and the faint marks above their eyebrows he realises they must be Awoken, though he took them at first for human. Damn, aren't the Awoken all supposed to be beautiful? Most of them are, so strikingly perfect that they hurt the eye to look at for too long - all smooth skin with the light dancing underneath it, exotic patterns and enchanting bright eyes. Like the Fae of old, and he does wonder sometimes how far back their origins go. This one? They must have broken the mould. They’re just … dull. That’s the only word he can conjure.

He stands back and watches them today as they move across the hangar on some errand. They have the pale skin, yes, but no light brightens it. Bland silver-grey eyes, barely glowing. Close-cropped ashy hair, carelessly shoved back off their broad forehead. Nothing wrong with their face per se; oval, with a strong nose and high cheekbones, slightly androgynous - like an ancient marble statue, he thinks - but nothing special either. They’re habitually expressionless, utterly calm. They deliver a small package to one of the hangar personnel, receive something in return - glimmer, perhaps? - acknowledge the exchange with a slight nod and walk away, all without a word.

Maybe they’re some weird new exo hybrid, he thinks, so unnatural is the air of nothingness around them - but then he remembers all the exos he knows who are fierce, animated, social creatures … so no, that’s not it. This one's just missing that spark that makes them worth remembering. No personality. He shrugs; he has better things to worry about today, and every other day, come to that. Maybe the Traveller made a mistake, rezzed someone they couldn’t fix, made ‘em fit to hold a gun and point it in the right direction most of the time and decided to leave it at that. He dismisses them from the front of his mind.

* * *

The day he realises they might be worth paying closer attention to, he’s hanging about one of the Tower courtyards, unobserved. Everyone knows what the Drifter looks like, right? That swirling duster, those huge spiked pauldrons, the headband; an instantly recognisable silhouette even before you register the trademark swagger and the drawling accent. So this lean, scruffy, middling-tall citizen in drab grey coveralls slips through the crowds without attracting attention and comes to rest leaning against a wall next to some crates, apparently studying some paperwork in his hand. From there he can watch the comings and goings of the Vanguard’s visitors, gathering more data. Always more data.

It’s an early spring day, with more than a hint of chill in the stiff breeze that’s snapping and fluttering the banners over the courtyard; people are moving briskly to stave off the cold despite the bright sunlight slanting across the space. There’s a background hum of voices and machinery, small ships coming and going overhead, and occasional snippets of conversation rise up and float across to him. Nothing particularly interesting, though once in a while he’s picked up a useful tip or two this way. Looks like today isn’t going to be one of those days. He watches the usual sparse crowd coming and going around Ikora; eager kinderguardians seeking praise and more missions, veterans checking in and exchanging information, one or two of her Hidden unless he’s very much mistaken - and he knows he’s not.

Then there’s a lull in the crowd, and there they are. He still can’t tell if they’re male or female in their armour; could be either, or neither. They make brief eye contact with the Warlock Vanguard, standing casually with one hand draped over the barrel of the rifle they’re holding, militarily at-ease. Ikora, though - her bearing changes instantly, and it’s this that makes his skin suddenly prickle; she stands straight, looks away to stare out across the city, facing the breeze; and now she speaks to the guardian aside, in a low voice. He has to strain to hear, and even then he can’t make out all the words. All he can be sure of is the tone, and it’s … deferential. Wary, even. What the hell? She’s not giving praise, or censure, or orders. She’s sharing something of herself in that conversation, and he’s desperate to know what, why, how? He can’t get closer; he has to be satisfied with what he has, which is knowing that this one, this boring dirty-silver titan, is significant somehow. He’s gonna be watching now.

* * *

When he finds out they’re a hero - no, THE hero - he’s so surprised he nearly drops the coin he’s flipping. He smoothly switches to bouncing the coin back up off his knee, catching it as it comes back down and running it across his knuckles with practiced ease as he recovers his balance. He looks straight at his informant, a middling-ability hunter who’s forever angling for free armour perks. He brings good quality titbits of gossip in trade as a rule, so he doesn’t discourage him too much.

Drifter snorts: “That’s the big hero? Woke up the traveller, took out a hive god? That one? What’d he do, bore Ghaul to death?” He laughs derisively, shaking his head. Stung, the hunter keeps talking, pouring out more and more information. “For real! I don’t hang out with him, he keeps to his clan, but the word is you don’t want to cross him.”. Drifter scoffs and dismisses the hunter with a vague promise of ‘maybe next week I’ll have somethin' for ya’ and turns back ostensibly to his Gambit fixtures. In reality he’s cross-referencing what he’s just heard with the odd behaviour he observed between the guardian and Ikora, and the whispers about Zavala’s visible discomfort around the maverick hero that never speaks.

* * *

Now he’s paying attention, he sees them everywhere. How did he miss them before? Here they are again in his basement one afternoon, waiting for their fireteam leader to sign them up for a match later. Watching their friend pick up a bounty reward with an excited whoop, bounding back to show off the gun. He looks across at them, and just for a second he thinks they’re watching him too … but no. They’re just facing in his direction, idly studying the wall opposite. Their gaze moves up, across, rests on his face for a second - did they make eye contact? he could almost swear they did - and then slides off, past, back to the wall, as if of all the things in this place he’s the least interesting. Part of the furniture. He’s annoyed, tries not to let it show. Who the fuck are they to disregard him in his own space, after all the trouble he’s gone to to generate this flamboyant showman persona? Who do they think they are? Hero, my ass, he thinks. Maybe they got lucky a few times; they can't be anything special with that attitude. He wonders if their clan finds them as dull as he does.

The team leader steps up now with the roster, and he looks them over as he takes the datapad. He’s seen this one before; a tall human warlock, olive-skinned but with an intricate full face tattoo, all whorls and spirals and teardrops; a smooth shaved head, multiple silver piercings in ears, lips and one eyebrow, impeccable floor-length robes in dark blue and silver. He nods acknowledgement, casts his eye over the list. Yep, he knows the names. All but one; ah, this must be the hero.

“Says here, ‘Sully’,” he queries. “He new?”.

The warlock rocks back easily on his heels, leans back and twists to look over at the titan. “No, they’ve been in before. Plenty of times. ”. The titan sees them looking over, and now their face holds a question which the warlock interprets and answers.

“Drifter was just saying, he ain’t seen you before.”.

Might be his imagination, but it seems there’s a momentary gleam of amusement in their eye before they turn their attention back to the group. That’s all the reaction he’s gonna get, it seems. He frowns, makes one more play for information;

“What’s his problem, he simple or somethin’?”

The warlock smiles, shakes his head. “They don’t speak. Nothing personal.”.

He turns away to rejoin the group, and with that they’re forming up, ready to head out to the Derelict, and there’s no more time for small talk.

* * *

Drifter watches the mysterious hero closely during the match, as far as he can while he’s supposed to be running the show. When he gets a proper look at them in action he realises they’re wearing almost a full set of his own armour, handed out for Gambit performance - highest possible power level and all the perks too, whoa - the warlock wasn’t wrong about how much time they’d spent in Gambit. They’ve somehow managed to make it as boring as they are though, a careful application of shaders muting the already subtle leather and chrome he’d originally chosen to something more like sackcloth and scuffed gunmetal. It can’t be accidental. Protective camouflage? A stealth titan - an intriguing contradiction in terms.

When the combat starts, though - oh, they’re a real titan all right. Over two-thirds of their kills are straight up melees, devastating punches delivered right to the face. He’s gotta say, he’s never seen ANYONE punch a high-power servitor to death with quite such relish before, and he’s looking forward to seeing if they try it on the primeval.

When blockers start arriving at the bank they act as sentry, efficiently clearing out the taken goblins and captains with a powerful fusion rifle. At the first invader alarm they’re already looking over at the beach spawn point, and the enemy hunter goes down instantly to that fiery fist. Drifter chuckles and crows “Easy there, I think you got ‘em!”, as the flames die down and the hunter respawns back on his own side, shaking his head angrily and bitching to his team. He’ll be back for revenge. The titan meanwhile jumps back to the bank, switches to a scout rifle and starts picking off enemies from the centre while the rest of the team gather motes and bank them in an efficient rhythm. They give no sign they’ve heard the Drifter’s commentary, but they’re obviously paying attention; they react instantly when he points to the next wave of hostiles, and destroy half of them with a hail of solar hammers before hopping back to the centre to send a large blocker.

Drifter sits back, keeping up the usual flow of encouragement to both teams, switching feeds to see how they’re doing, checking in on the hero maybe a little more often than the rest but not noticeably so. They hold the line, support their team, clear out enemies and take down invaders all with the same grim focus. They’re not indestructible; they go down a couple of times, once to an invader’s golden gun - that same hunter, back with a grudge - and once to a taken vandal sniping from cover; but they pick themselves up and carry on, eventually taking out the primeval with a final blow from a battered rocket launcher. A close match, well fought, and a hard-won victory to boast about later.

He’s liberal with his praise, singling them out for the deciding shot, and they tilt their head momentarily in acknowledgment as they transmat out of the arena. The teams arrive back on the Derelict swapping anecdotes and analysis; the titan keeps silent, sliding off their helmet and gauntlets, small cuts and bruises they’ve taken during the final stage of the match fading as their ghost fusses around them. They wave off the proposed communal shower in favour of returning to the Tower, and they’re gone without a word a moment later, transmatting to their ship which peels off and heads for the Traveller’s visible bulk. He sends a brief message of congratulation to them, along with each member of their team, and commiserations to the losers just like he always does. To his surprise he gets a response - from the ghost, not the guardian - a brief ‘Thanks’ before they’re gone beyond sight.

He wonders how he can get them to interact; he needs to know more about them so he can work out how to use them.

* * *

<Drifter’s watching you>

_I know _

<Is it a problem?>

_Not yet_


	2. First Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An encounter with the guardian - doesn't go quite as he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keeping the M rating for now - bad language, sexual harassment, mentions of sexual acts.

Somewhere under the streets in the oldest part of the city there’s a forgotten storeroom, a vast undercroft of musty alcoves stacked high with disordered piles of crates and boxes from long-ago trades and stockpiles. He’s been coming back once a week or so for months now, nipping in when he’s passing and picking it over for anything he can use. Today is no different; after running some errands in the small bazaar nearby, with a detour via his favourite food stall for a hasty burrito, he’s come down to continue rooting through a collection of battered electronics he remembers uncovering a while back, hoping to find something to fix up a malfunctioning bank.

Up at street level there’s broad sunshine, late spring finally turning into the the promise of summer, but the light barely creeps into the cellar through the tiny windows above his head, filmed with grime from years of neglect. He grimaces as he stares into the gloom; wishes he’d remembered to bring a handlight. And something to cover his nose and mouth, he reflects, as his feet stir up the dust and he hastily holds his breath to avoid inhaling who-knows-what mould and spores. 

As he traces the remembered route to the alcove he’s interested in, he becomes aware he’s not alone - against the distant voices of citizens in the streets above there’s the occasional _chink_ or _scrape_ as if someone else is going through the crates around a corner nearby. That’s fair, he supposes, nobody owns this stuff; or if they do they’re long gone and should’ve taken better stock of their stuff before leaving it behind, so he’s not averse to a little competition. Honour amongst thieves - as long as it doesn’t interfere with his own thieving. He is curious though, to know who else has discovered this little treasure trove of his. 

He loosens the hand cannon at his belt just a fraction and keeps a hand lightly on it as he moves silently to the crumbling brick arch that separates the two rooms. There’s trash underfoot, paper and leaves blown in by the wind over the years mixed with a scattering of debris from the final assault of the Red War, and he picks his footing carefully so as not to make a noise.

As he moves he considers his options - observe, or confront? - when he’s startled by a raucous and, frankly, filthy laugh that echoes around the cellar; seems whoever it is has just uncovered something that took them by pleasant surprise. He suppresses a grin; he could get to liking a person who lets themselves laugh like that, unselfconscious and loud. Maybe it’s foolish to read too much into a laugh, but they sound like someone who enjoys life. Intriguingly it sounds like a woman, or maybe a boy, he can’t be certain - higher pitched than a man anyway. He moves across just a fraction more so he can see part of the other space, keen to see who they are; keeping himself just out of sight he peers across at the shape moving at the other side of the room.

All he can see in the dimness is that they're human, slightly shorter than him but wearing bulky clothing, with short pale hair. They have their back to him and they're holding something in their hands that looks like an ancient ceremonial belt, a wide strip of fabric in once-rich red brocade now faded to a mottled pink and spotted with cobwebs. A faint sheen catches the light as they turn it slightly; raised characters worked in pale gold thread run along the centre band of the belt. They're tracing the embroidered patterns with a careful finger - suddenly he realises it’s a guardian; that bulk is armour, and there’s a ghost hovering next to them following the motion of their fingertips as if it’s recording. He frowns - this changes things. What have they found? Idle historic interest, or valuable lore? Something he ought to look over before they go running to the Vanguard with it? 

Just then the ghost speaks, and he twitches in surprise - he knows that ghost voice, and it belongs to the mysterious hero. 

“A curse? What does it say”

… no response, but the ghost appears to be hearing something he can’t; it nods. Is the hero's neural connection that strong, that they can subvocalise to the ghost? It’s been known to happen when guardians have been Risen for a century or more, working with a ghost they’re well attuned to, but that isn’t the case here. _Shouldn’t _be the case. 

The ghost speaks again: “And in the original? Out loud please - I need a voice print for the archive.”

He's forgotten to breathe now; rigid with shock and the effort to not betray his presence, he listens as the hero recites a phrase in a language he hasn’t heard in several hundred years, and very much longer than that in its pure form - delicate intonation rising and falling, crisp vowel sounds, all pitch-perfect. He’s heard the curse itself before, ‘May all your sons be bastards.’. He grins humourlessly. But that’s not important, not as much as this question - where and when the fucking hell did this allegedly newly-Risen guardian learn to speak a complex pre-Golden Age language with such precision? And the voice … oh, definitely female, no question. That light silvery tone belongs to a girl or a young woman, though the confidence of the delivery suggests a long time alive. He can’t stop himself; he speaks into the silence.

“Well now … ain't that somethin'." 

The hero spins swiftly to face him as he steps through the arch, making eye contact for what must be the first time. It’s a disconcertingly direct gaze, now that it’s fully on him; those pale eyes meet his without fear or hesitation, and they tilt their head a fraction. He feels like he’s being measured, like a bug pinned to a board for further study, and he narrows his eyes at the comparison. _Oh no you don’t_ ... Now he’s reading them as female, his confidence returns; he’ll get the upper hand in this interaction - they don’t get to stare him down like that and get away with it.

He leans back easily on the arch behind him and gestures at them, indicating the armour that conceals their form. "I figured you must have a good reason for keeping so quiet all the time - afraid people will find out you’re a girl under all that blood and thunder? Worried people might take advantage?”

Their expression doesn’t change - he’d expected a reaction to that, he was sure he’d hit the mark, but they remain perfectly blank for an uncomfortably long second. The ghost hovers beside them, its blue optic tracking between him and the guardian, before it responds flatly.

“That isn’t the reason.”. 

The guardian turns away before the sentence is even completed - he’s dismissed. The ghost rejoins them as they start looking at the next thing in the crate in front of them, and he feels his anger rising. This is NOT how people get to behave around him, especially not when they’re kinderguardians he could break with one hand. He summons all his accumulated centuries of experience of dealing with the opposite sex, and adopts a lewd, knowing tone.

“No? So what is it then, sister? If I’d’a known how pretty your voice was, I’d'a been makin' moves on you a long time ago. Can’t be the only red-blooded male around here with that instinct. You just let me know any time you’re lookin’ for company, yeah?”. He winks even though they’re not looking at him, knowing it will add the desired edge to his voice; time to knock them off their careful balance.

Finally they react - with a shrug of resignation they carefully put aside the second fabric piece they’ve picked up and step across the space towards him, coming to a stop just out of his reach. From that vantage point they assess him like a piece of meat; tracking across his features, down to his shoulders and chest and what can be seen of his build under the duster and the armour; lingering at his groin for just a moment, decoding his wide-legged stance and the bulge on display. He stands patiently under the scrutiny, the faintest smile of satisfaction crinkling the corners of his eyes. 

Finally the silence is broken again by the ghost’s fussy voice … evidently getting some sort of mental commentary from the guardian, it says sharply “… what’s ‘pegging’? … ohhh by the Traveller I did NOT need that image! what are you thinking? Eeeewwww!” And it whirls around behind them shaking from side to side as if to dislodge something from its memory. The guardian's face breaks into an impish grin as they track the ghost’s disgusted flapping. He’s momentarily captivated - their face comes to life with the smile, like nothing he’s ever seen before. It's feral, wicked even, and altogether fascinating; it speaks of dirty secrets and stolen moments, a whole hidden layer of experience completely unsuspected. This gets better and better.

He leers suggestively. “So you’re thinkin' about me, huh? Or should I say, you an' me? Y’know, anythin' you wanna do is fine by me.”. 

As they turn their attention back to him the smile fades, like the sun disappearing behind a cloud; the contrast chills him. They speak softly, still in that silvery voice, but the tone is edged with disinterest. “It won’t be happening. You’re off my list.”.

“Wha … you always make up your mind that fast? Don't a guy get a decent chance?”

“You had it; you were rude to my ghost. We’re done.”. 

And with that, they step past him and head up the stairs, turning at the top and out into the street above. _Whoa_. He stands for a moment, replaying the conversation, trying to work out where it got away from him. _Was_ he rude to their ghost? He can’t remember the occasion, but he won't deny it’s plausible. It doesn’t seem much of a reason though - no, she must be playing hard to get. He laughs out loud, delighted to have a new player in the game - and he doesn’t mean Gambit. He can make use of her, for sure; once he works out what her levers are.

* * *

<Is he a problem now?>

_no_

<I cannot believe you thought about pegging, ew>

_he liked the idea_

<Gross. I’ll make sure to be well out of range if you ever get that far.>

_suit yourself_

<You know, I appreciate you standing up for me. You didn’t need to.>

_he doesn’t get to be rude to you_


	3. Leverage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drifter makes his move, and finds out he may not be as smart as he thinks he is.

The empty bottle clinks agains his glass as he picks it up for one more refill; he frowns as he realises he’s finished that one as well. _Dammit_. If he wants more he’s going to have to move, and he’s just tired enough and drunk enough to not want to make the effort. Alone on the bridge of the Derelict, the day's tasks done and definitely not in the mood for company, he tosses the bottle under his chair to join its fellows and leans back in the command chair. Time for a nap; he can’t even be bothered to move to his bed right now. 

An unkind observer might say he was brooding - sulking, even, but he prefers to think of it as … oh, considering options. To say that the hero's been on his mind is an understatement; he’s been turning over that infuriating conversation in his head for a week now. A week since she looked right at him and demolished his pretensions with a few calm words; a week since she dismissed him and walked away as if he were the least significant thing in her world. Which maybe he is, right now, but he intends to change that. He'll find a way to bring her over to his side. 

Another hired gun for his crew is always a bonus, but there’s more to it than that; after the way she belittled him he needs to shift the balance of power back where it belongs - he needs to _own_ her. He indulges himself with a brief vision of her under his command, straining every nerve to impress him, anxiously seeking his approval - it almost makes him salivate, imagining the look in her eye as he breaks her down and puts her in her place. He knows a trick or two, honed during long centuries of manipulation and survival, and he’ll do whatever he has to. Always has.

But it’s taken him the whole week, idly turning his mind to this scenario or that during quiet moments, to realise that he has no idea what her levers might be - she’s far too good at keeping that sort of information about herself under wraps. But she must have needs or desires he can manipulate, everybody does, and it’s a rare thing indeed if they don’t fall into one or other of his categories. He ticks them off in his mind - money; affirmation; power.

He figures he can’t go far wrong if he starts with money. She works hard in Gambit, like it’s more than a game to her, and now he’s watching her he knows how many bounties she completes, how much she’s making. She’s a Vanguard regular as well, running upwards of twenty missions a week as well as patrols in the EDZ and the Shore. She must need glimmer, a lot of it, to be working so many side hustles at once. Maybe she’s a gambler? or she has expensive tastes, or she’s saving up for something big … either way, he knows how to use greed. He’s smiling to himself as he falls asleep.

* * *

Next Gambit match she plays, he deliberately shorts her - just a little, just enough to look like an oversight, but enough to be noticeable. The ghost comments tartly, “This is short; there should be at least a hundred more.”. The basement is crowded with other guardians waiting to get paid, and he waves his hand impatiently at her. "Yeah, I’m a little busy here - come back and talk to me later.”.

She considers for a moment, then shrugs and walks away with her ghost hovering after her.

He doesn’t see her again for well over a week, and when she does return there’s no mention of the missing glimmer. _Interesting_. He lets a couple of matches go by and then does it again, around the same amount, and the ghost again protests. “Short again - are you scamming us, Drifter?”. He gathers his best offended expression, and shoots back, “Didn’t I tell ya to come talk to me? I’ll be here later - come back when it ain't so busy and we can go through the numbers.” 

He watches her departing back from under his heavy brows, pretending to fiddle with something on the workbench in front of him, and allows himself a smirk of satisfaction as she turns out of sight. _That oughta do it_. Even if she sees through the ploy, at the very least she’ll be back to question why he’s singled her out like this … and then he can set her straight on how things are gonna be between them. He’s ready to push back; the entire conversation rehearsed, a smart answer to every possible objection on her part. He spends the rest of the day keeping the basement clear, sending people away as fast as possible, making sure he’ll be alone when she comes back. 

She doesn’t come. 

* * *

<What now?>

_we find other things to do_

<For how long?>

_until he folds_

<What if he doesn’t?>

_then he doesn’t_

_we have enough to keep us busy_

* * *

Several weeks go by. As the time passes the less relevant his rehearsed arguments are, and the more uncertain he feels as he runs through them one more time. What’s worse, she seems to have disappeared - he hasn’t even seen her in the Tower, much less in Gambit. The clan are still regulars, he’s seeing the usual faces almost every day, just with different people filling that fourth slot. Finally he manages to work a casual query into a conversation with the warlock. 

“Ain’t seen your silver titan in a while - get sick of Gambit finally? Ya tell ‘em Drifter's got some sweet new gear to play for.” 

“Yeah, they know. They’re pretty much full time running missions for the Vanguard right now.”

“Vanguard, huh? Noble … but Gambit pays better, if you know what I mean.” 

He winks for emphasis; the warlock laughs. “Vanguard pays in full.” and he pretends to check his payment, making an exaggerated show of counting on his fingers.

A snigger ripples around the basement … and suddenly Drifter realises what’s been bugging him for the past week or two; small bunches of people lingering after payment, standing unobtrusively by the doorway and counting their glimmer into their pockets before leaving. He hadn’t connected the dots, assuming they were just making sure they had enough on them for a particular purchase after leaving his basement; but now it all falls into place. Someone’s saying that he can’t be trusted, and he’s missed all the symptoms until this first overt mention. It can only have one source.

Now the words have been said out loud he notices other guardians looking openly at the money he’s handed them, counting up right in front of his actual face to check they haven’t been cheated. _Fuck_. He can’t afford a reputation for not paying his dues … he’s happy with his reputation as a shady character, a dealer in questionable goods and proprietor of a highly illegal and dangerous game, but keeping them coming back into Gambit depends utterly on him being one hundred percent reliable when it comes to payment. This situation needs handling before it gets out of control.

As her clan leaves he’s practically mobbed with anxious enquiries about whether he’s SURE he calculated everyone’s money right, and could he just check …? Smiling his broadest and most relaxed friendly smile, internally snarling, he goes through the numbers until everyone is satisfied and the basement finally empties. He stands for a long moment, leaning heavily on the workbench and frowning down at the clutter there while the adrenaline rush subsides. In his mind's eye he’s seeing her face, that blank stare as she took his measure … _Damn. She played me_. He mentally salutes her, and makes hasty plans for some damage limitation; looks like he'll need to tread a little more carefully than originally planned.

* * *

First he has to work out where to find her, if she's not around the Tower any more - that’ll be tricky. He’ll be damned before he goes chasing her around the Shore or wherever she happens to be right now, that’s a sure way to signal that she’s got the upper hand. He’s far from ready to admit defeat.

It takes a few more days for him to get the information he needs without overtly chasing it; a fragment of overheard gossip in the courtyard suggests that she's back for a week’s downtime between missions, which means she’ll be found in her usual quarters in the clan dorm. He’s already established where that is, dorm allocations being listed in a central registry; high up on the east side of the Tower, one of the good neighbourhoods but not the most exclusive. Safe enough for him to visit. He deals with the early fixtures next day, tidies himself up, and makes his way there around mid-morning. 

He hasn’t been up on this side of the Tower for a long while; nothing much has changed though. The narrow alleys are still criss-crossed with Vanguard and clan banners strung from balconies, occasionally pressed into dual service as washing lines, and the off-white walls look freshly painted, clean and bright in the sunshine. Now that summer’s arrived the planters are a riot of colour, red and pink flowers nestling in amongst the greenery, suggesting careful tending on someone’s part. He’d scorn the suggestion that he’d hanker after living somewhere like this, but he’s not above admiring the overall effect as he walks by, scanning block numbers for the one he needs. 

He comes to the right door at last; recessed into the thick wall, painted a deep cobalt blue, an intricate affair with inset lattice panels and antique brass hinges. There’s no intercom or key pad, and he’s momentarily confused - then he rolls his eyes as he spots the archaic doorknocker right under his nose. _Been shipside too long_. 

He doesn’t have to wait long after knocking; the door is answered almost instantly by one of the other Gambit regulars, a short dark-skinned human hunter with scarlet streaks woven into her long braids whose name, according to his mental catalogue, is Dina. She’s still in sleepwear, faintly rumpled, and looks like she hasn’t been awake long. The sunlight reflecting off the wall behind him makes her squint as she peers out, then her face resolves into blank surprise as she registers who it is - she’s never seen him outside of his basement before. He reacts quickly to put her at her ease; gives her his best roguish smile and, with a broad sweep of his arms, indicates himself. “Mornin', sister! Just callin' to settle up a debt with your titan, Sully I think you call ‘em?”.

He takes care with the pronouns, having cottoned to the fact that everyone close to them carefully refers to them in the gender-neutral. _Whatever_, he thinks, _if that’s how she wants to play it_. He knows how to play nice long enough to get what he wants. Dina smiles uncertainly, waves a sleepy welcome, and opens the door wider to let him in. 

He walks past her and finds himself in a large room, shrouded in gloom for the moment with all the window shutters being closed. Bright spots of light fleck across the carpet, echoing the intricate fretwork of the shutters, indicating they’re on the currently sunny side of the central courtyard; couches and cushions line two walls, with a large entertainment screen on the third. The fourth side, to his left as he steps in, holds a tidy kitchen area with counters and cupboards running almost the length of the wall apart from double doors at the further end. Looks like a well-used communal space, devoid of people at the moment. Do they all sleep in late, he wonders? 

His unspoken question is part-answered when Dina crosses the room and opens a door on the far side, sticking her head through to yell “Sully! You got a visitor!”. She leaves the door ajar as she heads back to the kitchen, going to a coffee pot on a stove that’s about to finish brewing, and deftly handing it off on to the counter to sit while she fetches cups from the cupboard below. The clink of the cups and the tantalising aroma combine to remind him he hasn’t stopped for caffeine yet today, uncharacteristically for him. He wonders distractedly whether a casual visitor can blag a cup.

There’s no sign of the titan yet. He moves a little so he can peek through the open door, assuming it’s her bedroom, and he’s taken aback by the sight of what looks like the whole clan - maybe twelve people, maybe more? he doesn’t have time to count all the limbs and divide by four - all heaped together in a puppy pile amid a mess of blankets and huge cushions. _Nice_. _Must've been some orgy_. Or maybe they all just sleep like that every night, who knows? He’s abruptly reminded of the last time he woke up next to someone, _way_ too long ago; it hurts like hell to recall the details, and he roughly pushes the unwelcome memory away. _Ancient history_.

The pile stirs slightly, and he can make just out the hero’s pale face in the dimness, and over her shoulder what surely has to be that tattooed warlock. Maas, that’s his name. Snuggled up against her back with a contented smile, practically nuzzling her neck … _hah, so that’s how it is_… more information for the catalogue, and a possible angle for his next assault on her levers. He smirks in brief satisfaction, then composes his expression into polite boredom as she raises herself up on one arm and starts to untangle her limbs from the blankets. There’s a chorus of groaning from the other bodies in the pile as they register it’s time to get up; not a mornings person among them, it seems. The titan finally escapes the pull of the bed and stands up straight, and he gets his first good look at her.

Out of her armour she's a lot slighter than he’d imagined; a slim athletic build with well-defined muscles, small breasts barely visible under her loose tank top. Her sleep shorts just skim the tops of her legs, and he has to fight the urge to look at her ass as she turns. Without the armour, too, her movements are graceful but no less measured; she moves like someone who knows exactly where they are and where they need to be, absolute poise evident at every turn, and he can’t help but admire the view while he’s got the chance.

She looks entirely unsurprised to see him, neither pleased nor displeased - it’s the same goddamn blank expression she always wears, and it’s with an effort that he keeps from grinding his teeth at her lack of reaction to him. As he opens his mouth to speak she holds up a ‘wait’ finger and veers off to the side where the coffee pot stands, leaning both arms on the counter and sending a piteous look at Dina; the hunter chuckles indulgently and passes her a freshly-filled cup as if she’d anticipated the request. She takes a long swig and closes her eyes in blissful appreciation. He’s caught by the intensity of the expression; considers idly what he might have to do to get her to make that face for him, and mentally shakes himself - _one thing at a time, pal_, he scolds himself. He’s caught staring by Dina; drops his gaze hastily as she gives him a knowing look.

At last the titan turns to look at him, one quirked eyebrow indicating that he needs to explain himself. He launches into his prepared speech. 

“Well, I ran the numbers - your ghost was right, looks like I accidentally shorted you a little on those last two matches you played. So I’m here to make good - can’t have people thinkin’ the Drifter don’t pay his bills, huh?”. He adds a self-deprecating chuckle for good measure, inviting her to humour a foolish old man. There’s no answering smile, but at least there’s also no hint of triumph in her bland gaze - if this is a game to her, as he suspects, at least she has the good manners not to gloat openly. He hands over the glimmer and watches as she checks it; finally looking back at him with another unspoken query. 

“Oh, I put a little extra in there - for yer trouble, ya know? I’d be obliged if you’d let people know we’re square.” 

She shrugs and raises two fingers to her temple in a casual salute before turning away. “That’s as close as you’ll get to a ‘yes'.” supplies Dina, and he nods thanks to her. “Don't they ever speak?”.

She purses her lips; “Hardly ever. Elective mute.”. The look in her eye suggests that’s more information than he deserves, and follow up questions will go unanswered, so he drops the subject. He has time enough to pursue this at his own pace.

As he’s considering how to make a graceful exit, being as this wasn’t quite how he’d imagined the encounter would go, he’s interrupted by the titan’s ghost appearing at her shoulder with a terse “Incoming from Ikora, she has something she wants you to look at. Delivery imminent.”, and almost immediately there’s another knock at the door, a uniformed Tower guard bearing an encrypted datapad. He doesn’t seem in the least phased by the sight of everyone in their sleepwear, so this can’t be a rare occurrence. He clearly knows who he’s looking for too; he walks across to hand it directly to the titan with the words, “Vanguard says ‘Eyes Only’” and waits for her thumbprint to acknowledge delivery. As the guard departs she glances at the datapad, brows drawing together momentarily as she scans the message header; she puts it down distractedly while she opens one of the double doors at the end of the counter. 

Abruptly she turns back as if she’s just remembered something, putting down her coffee to leave both hands free; catches Dina's eye and swiftly signs something that includes a gesture in his direction. Apparently it translates to ‘give the man a coffee’ or something similar, because Dina instantly pours another cup and hands it to him without comment. He takes it gratefully - _damn, smells like the good stuff_ \- and takes a deep swig. He’s conscious he’s probably making the exact blissed face the titan made just moments before. He doesn’t care. 

When he recovers from that first taste she's already gone through the door which, on inspection, leads to a sheltered balcony overlooking the plant-filled courtyard. There’s sunshine filtering through the banners and branches overhead, and on a long wicker chair in the sunniest spot the titan is sprawled, already engrossed in reading the datapad. She glances at him briefly as he makes his way to a bench across from her, then back down at the text. She doesn't seem overly bothered by him being there; boldened, he breaks the silence. 

“Eyes Only, huh - top secret Vanguard work? Never had you down as a spy.” He grins, to show that it’s just an easy joke between friends. There’s a brief answering smile, if you can call it that, a momentary quirk at the corner of her mouth, then she's back to frowning at the text. 

The ghost, hovering at her shoulder still, speaks up. “Just some translation work. Eliksni scout reports from the EDZ, several days old.”.

He whistles. “You read Fallen script? Hard enough learnin' to speak it. I’m impressed.”

She shifts slightly, trying to find an angle to balance the datapad while she takes another sip of her coffee, and the ghost responds again. “We don’t find it hard.”. He realises the tone is different somehow; two personalities using the voice? There’s no lag, it’s the same voice, but not the same.

“Hold on;” he raises a hand, and she looks up at him again; “ … you can speak through the ghost?”

“When we need to.”.

_Right_. Definitely a strong neural net. Data, data, data … he urgently wants to know her back story, wonders who he knows who can help. For now he casts around for some more innocuous question, desperate to keep the conversation going for as long as he can hold her attention. 

“How many languages you know, anyway? I could maybe use your help with, uh, some things.”.

From the guardian, a shrug. From the ghost: “We don’t know. How many are there?” And then from the ghost again, in an apologetic tone, “I lost count at forty.” He notices the shift in tone. 

“So … when the ghost says ‘we’, that's you talkin’?”. 

She shrugs confirmation without looking up. He feels like he’s cracked some tiny part of the puzzle, though he has no idea what to do with it. He settles for taking another mouthful of his coffee, watching her over the brim of his cup as she pulls up a second section of the datapad’s screen and makes swift notes. He can’t see the screen, but what he knows of Fallen message structures suggests she’s untangling several paragraphs of closely-written hieroglyphs with a sprinkling of acronyms and code names for good measure. He reads a bit himself, but then he’s been alive and fighting the Fallen for … well, way too long. She’s been rezzed no more than five years; whatever she knows has to have come from her life before. 

Barely two minutes later she's done; he blinks in surprise at the speed of it - that’s not idle scholarship, that’s fluency, the kind you only get from using a live language on a regular basis. 

The datapad is laid aside as she gets up and stretches until every joint pops, rising up on tiptoe and lacing her fingers together over her head, reaching up almost to the vine twining through the lattice above them. He’s freely staring now, and he doesn’t care who sees it, watching the play of muscles in her shoulders and back and the tensing of her legs. He has a sudden vision of how she’d look stretched out like that on his bed, and looks aside hastily. _Get a grip_.

Fully relaxed again, she picks up her cup and the datapad and indicates to him to go through the door first; whatever this moment was, it's over. He obediently heads back in, draining his coffee and placing the cup down on the side before turning to gesture a broad farewell. The titan has already turned her back and is retreating into the bedroom; the lounge is filling up with shuffling guardians in various states of undress and awareness. He gets a few mumbled responses and heads out, turning over in his head everything he’s just seen and heard. There _has _to be a lever in there somewhere ...

* * *

<You were right.>

_don’t sound so surprised _

<What now?>

_that’s up to him_

<Why did you let him stay for coffee?>

_he was practically salivating_

_I'm not a complete monster, you know_


	4. Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drifter's no closer to achieving his goal, and the strain is starting to show.

Settling up his debt to the titan seems to have smoothed things over; he doesn’t know what she’s said or who she’s talking to, but the atmosphere in the basement returns to normal, nobody querying his sums or checking their payments - at least not to his face. Trust is restored. 

She starts coming back to Gambit too, turning up two or three times a week on the regular with her usual team. Their little difference isn’t mentioned again but he catches himself taking extra care with her payments in case he accidentally - for real this time - shorts her. Money may not be the lever he thought it was, but it’s clear she pays attention to her transactions nonetheless. It’s dawning on him that pissing her off was a major error - he’d taken her for a shy female, deflecting attention with her careful camouflage and keeping herself to herself, but it’s obvious she has way more connections in the Tower than he’d bargained for. Way more influence, too.

He turns his mind to working out a scheme for the next option on his list of possible levers; affirmation. This one’s a little more tricky, taking a lot of different forms - some people are always looking for love, that perfect exclusive/forever/happy ever after relationship. Others are looking for praise, however empty, to feed their vanity. Given her combat record he suspects she’ll be more moved by competitive status, some form of overt validation like a trophy or a badge. Or a title. _Hah_. He has his Dredgen title that he gives out, for reasons he’s chosen not to share with the lucky recipients, and by damn It makes him chuckle privately when he thinks about the likely reaction of the original holders of the name. His dark sense of humour is likely to be the end of him one of these days, but at least he’ll go down laughing.

One quiet evening he settles himself in front of his console with a bowl of questionable stew and a large glass of something; calls up her Gambit record to see what he can see. She must have fulfilled a fair portion of the requirements by now, surely - he can dangle completion of the title in front of her, have her jump through some hoops to prove to him that she’s earned the name. He runs through all the assorted badges, comparing them to her stats … and pauses with a forgotten forkful of stew halfway to his mouth as he stares in disbelief at the screen full of calculations. _This can’t be right_. 

According to his numbers she’s earned every badge several times over, every single one of them - some of them hundreds of times - how come she’s never approached him about claiming them? It’s not like she wouldn’t know, either; guardians aren’t quiet about the achievements they earn and the loot they expect in return. He clears the screen with an angry swipe of his hand and sits back. It’s not money; it’s not status … praise, maybe? That doesn’t seem right either. And she’s not looking for love, she already turned him down flat on that front. So what the hell is it?

Nothing else for it; if he wants to get under her skin he needs to get her to open up.

* * *

But there are no further conversations with her, despite his best efforts. He lays on the charm as thick as he dares, singles her out for attention in every match, compliments her skill, refers to her record. She blanks him. All his comments and pleasantries are met at best with a stare, a polite almost-smile or a shrug, and after each match she heads off immediately planetside. He could fool himself that maybe she's warming to him a little, but he knows that’s wishful thinking. She treats him like a shady uncle - nothing new there, he gets that from a lot of the younger guardians - and keeps a neutral distance. It’s bugging him, for reasons he can’t describe, that he can’t even seem to establish a basic social connection with her. What the hell does it take …? Does she even have a social life?

He pays close attention to queue conversations for a few days until he hears the clan making plans for later, and makes sure he’s at the bar they mention shortly after opening. By the time he’s found himself a quiet corner to lurk in and some people to talk to they’re already arriving, splitting up to claim a booth and to get service at the bar. She’s in the second group, crossing the room with her habitual grace and leaning casually on the counter. It’s clear she's a favoured regular. The pretty girl behind the bar lights up when she sees the titan, drops what she’s doing immediately and pours an extra generous measure; leans in to make conversation, more or less ignoring everyone else. He watches the barmaid’s overt flirting, and the answering gleam in the guardian's eye as she raises the glass in a silent toast and downs the contents. _Fuck. If she's not with the warlock, she's gettin' it from the barmaid. Maybe both._ Either way, love is definitely not something she’s lacking.

* * *

Maas leans in as she rejoins the group. “Look who’s showed up.”. He jerks his head subtly in the direction of the Drifter, nursing a shot in the corner behind her and talking to a couple of associates.

She looks not behind her, but aside, and grins evilly as she signs. 

_don’t fancy yours much_

He chokes on a mouthful of his drink, laughing. “You didn’t even look!”.

For answer, she just tilts her head at the polished copper sheet covering the wall beside her; it’s at the perfect angle for her to see the whole room without turning.

_reflections are a thing_

“Witchcraft.” he mutters darkly, then smirks at her _who, me? _face.

* * *

Drifter doesn’t learn anything new that evening. She has her back to him and stays that way the whole time he’s there, so all he sees is the back of her head and the expressions of the people she’s talking to. Signing at. Whatever. They seem to be having a good time … anyway, now he knows that’s a spot she’s at regularly he can go back other times and pick a better viewing angle. It should count as progress, but he’s unaccountably cranky by the time her group starts showing signs of moving on. He rules out following them any further that night, and heads back to the Derelict.

He doesn’t acknowledge how desperate he’s getting, or why, until one afternoon he’s manning the basement as usual, putting together rosters for the next day’s matches, and he sees her come in with the clan. The warlock lines up to submit names, and he watches the hero stroll over to the railing and hitch herself up to sit on it. Another titan, a tall Awoken male he’s seen a few times before, comes across and stands in front of her, placing his hands on the rail either side of her and leaning in close. She looks at the young man with a faintly knowing smile, inviting him to get even closer, and Drifter gets a sudden sour taste in the back of his throat. Takes him a moment to identify it as … envy. He wants to be that lucky bastard, wants his titan looking at him with that welcoming smile … _whoa boy, when did you start thinkin' of her as yours?_

He mentally shakes himself, looks back to the queue to deal with the next person in line, and it’s Maas. Still off balance, and before he can stop himself he blurts “Better watch it there, pal - looks like someone’s tryna steal your girl.” The tall warlock looks across, startled, before relaxing.

“Wrong on both counts.”, he states calmly. At the Drifter’s baffled look, he adds “Not mine; and not a girl.”.

Drifter exhales heavily, cursing himself. “Oh really? Looked to me like you’re pretty close, unless you snuggle up to everyone in your clan like that?”.

Maas grins broadly. “Yeah, I’m on their list. Me and about a hundred other people. It’s a good time, is all. No strings.” 

Drifter hands him back the team list and eyes the hero thoughtfully, as if seeing her for the first time. 

“Nice … how d'ya get on the list? “ and he half-smiles, hoping it sounds like banter rather than desperation. Maas shouts with laughter and calls across the basement. 

“Hey, Sully! The Drifter ain’t hungry today!”. 

She pushes her friend aside gently and jumps down from the railing. As she lands lightly on her feet she looks a question at Maas, and to the Drifter’s horror he gestures right at him and continues “He’s thirsty!” 

There’s an awkward moment where he honestly fears she’s going to laugh in his face; but she doesn't even look at him. She just half shrugs, just like always, DAMN her for that ability to not give a fuck, and she turns to go out the door. As she’s nearly out of sight her hand comes up and she clicks her fingers with an audible snap. Maas heads off the half-formed “What the hell …” on the Drifter’s lips with a translation: “‘Skills'.” He laughs again. “You might make the list if they get bored, or you get interesting. They’re not short of offers.”.

And with that the clan are leaving, laughing together as they go to wherever they’re due to be next. The room empties fast, and he indulges in some heartfelt cursing once he’s sure everyone’s out of earshot. If the Black Armory exo can hear him she’ll just assume he’s dropped a spanner on his foot, not that she'll care. 

He turns to face the bank and glares into the swirling mass at the centre. 

“What the fuck?” he asks, but not surprisingly there are no answers in there. He swears one more time, and looks at his workbench for the next thing he needs to do. Darkness is coming, and he needs to be ready.


	5. Of Course She Can Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drifter's running out of ideas, patience and whiskey.

“You’re going through this stuff at a hell of a rate these days. You opened a bar I don’t know about?”.

Drifter smirks non-commitally at the jibe as he hands over payment for the crate of whisky, his second this month. “Nah, it’s a new drinkin’ game. Every time a blueberry dies carryin' fifteen motes you take a shot. You want in?”.

The shopkeeper chuckles. “No thanks - I’d be dead from alcohol poisoning within a week.”.

He broods on the exchange all the way back to the basement, congratulating himself on his swift deflection. It’s almost the truth, except motes have nothing to do with it … it’s a shot (or two, or three) every time he catches her invading his thoughts. It’s the only coping mechanism he has to hand, short of picking a fight every time the frustration threatens to overwhelm him. _Heh_. _Maybe I should get down into Gambit myself and punch some shanks._ That mental image makes him smile, at least.

* * *

He’s given up pretending he’s disinterested at this point; the empty bottles stacked behind his chair silently call him out. He’s fascinated by her, has been from the start, from the moment he heard that filthy laugh in the storeroom, and he can’t stop thinking about her. Every weekend he’s at the bar now, playing cards and making deals with his new drinking buddies so he has a legitimate excuse to be around and a vantage point to watch her from. It's got so he has his own regular table now, tucked up near the back with a good view of the circular booth with the deep-cushioned seats that the clan always claims, and when he walks in the barmaid's already lining up his first shot of the evening. He's tried different spots around the bar, looking for one that'll give him a better view of the hero, but this one works the best no matter where she sits. 

He struggles to remember now why he ever thought her boring. Obviously she goes to some trouble to maintain her bland facade, that public duty face that everyone else sees; but when she chooses she lights up the whole room, expertly charming everyone in range without a word being spoken, using rapid sign language and her expressive face. There’s this whole other side to her that only her friends get to witness ... and he’s not invited. He’s tense with envy, over in his dim corner. He must be starting to look lonely, or desperate, or both; one of the quarter’s whores sashays over to see if he’s looking for a good time, and he tells her that actually he’s already having one, thanks darlin’. 

He wishes he could convince himself as easily. 

More people are crowding into the bar now, as it reaches the time of night when Tower workers get off shift and come in for the evening’s entertainment. The mood shifts as the lights dim slightly and the music system comes on, playing something easy-listening and faintly retro. The hero is first to the dance floor - _oh_ _yeah, of COURSE she can dance too _\- standing up with the barmaid, spinning and dipping her expertly in a complex two-step until the girl is breathless with giggles. She knows all the moves. 

Watching her interact like this, seeming very masculine as she smiles down at the girl and effortlessly leads her into another spin, he realises he doesn’t care where she’s been, or how she presents, or what she’s got in her pants. He’s sampled all sexes and genders over the long years - on the rare occasions he lets himself relax enough to connect with other human beings, that is - and he wants her, any way he can.

He deliberately folds a halfway decent hand, tired of trying to focus on two things at once, and leans back in his seat to keep an eye on the show; as the other players crow and step up their bets he watches her dance the girl back to the bar and relinquish her with a squeeze at the end of the song. The next tune comes on, something slow and sensuous, and he wonders if he dares … ah, he’s too slow. Probably just as well. Maas is approaching her already and they fall instantly into a practised rhythm, wrapped around each other and swaying in time. She’s back to feminine again just like that, pressed against the warlock with her arms twined around his neck. He's tall enough that she has to look right up at him, and the look on her face as she does is enough to make Drifter twitch - languorous, suggestive, faintly wicked. _I want that, you lucky sonofabitch. Want her lookin' at me like that_. He hisses in frustration momentarily before he catches himself and converts it to a cough, scowling down at his drink until the song ends.

He thinks he’s been subtle, but obviously he’s losing his touch; when he next looks up Maas is looking right at him and saying something aside to the hero. He can just see her face in profile, a flash of her teeth as that wicked smile breaks out. She signs something that he doesn’t catch that raises a burst of laughter from the other table, abruptly shushed, and all his frustration bubbles over at once. He pushes back from the table and stalks over. 

“Makin’ fun of ol’ Drifter, are we? After all the opportunities I put your way? That ain’t very civilised.” He deliberately lays the accent on thick, keeps the tone light, stands easily so there’s no overt aggression in his approach. There’s lurking menace in his voice nonetheless; the casual showman is just another mask, after all. 

From beside him one of the others in the group speaks placatingly - he knows this exo, they’ve done a few side missions for him, always reliable.

“Calm down, man - we were just saying, we keep seeing you in here - we hope you aren’t putting your drinks on our tab. We can barely keep up with Sully’s bar bill.” 

The whole group erupts in laughter again; she leans back against the padded backrest of the booth with a pointed grin and signs something at her clanmate that needs no translation. The exo sniggers, holding up a warding hand at her, “I’m kidding. Sully doesn’t pay for drinks here, since they made friends with the owner's daughter - if you know what I mean.”, with a meaningful sidelong glance at the barmaid. An approving cheer goes up from the rest of the group that she acknowledges with a silent toast and a gleam in her eye. 

Drifter forces himself to laugh, and playfully claps her on the shoulder. “That’s a rogue move right there, hero! I dig it … next round’s on me, okay?” There’s a chorus of assent and he turns to the bar, missing the quizzical glance she shares with Maas at the physical contact. For just a moment there he feels a little happier, like he’s in on the joke for a change - looks like he's been wasting his time lurking in corners, when he should have just come over in the first place … then he remembers he’d been determined to make her make the first move. _Damn_. He makes his excuses and leaves as soon as the drinks arrive.

* * *

While all this is going on his other concerns have been suffering from neglect; several tasks are becoming urgent now and he turns his mind to those while he tries to get his balance back. For a start he’s got several out-system stashes of gear he wants to recover and lay up closer to home before any trouble starts, and he'll need a crew. There’s a small core of regulars he calls on when he needs extra muscle, but not enough; and he’s going to need someone who can take on a second-in-command role, someone he can trust to a degree, who can think on their feet. For all the smart guardians running around these days there aren’t many who fit that particular bill. He runs over the possible names in his mind, reviewing each one before settling on one to approach first; one of the other young heroes of the Red War, helped him forge that gun a while back that got everyone so excited, he goes to the top of the list. Good kid, more than smart enough, can hold his own in a firefight … he considers the Drifter’s offer for a few moments with a thoughtful crease between his brows before offering up his trust. 

Drifter’s happy with his choice - this one’s easy to handle, looks to him for guidance and doesn’t ask too many awkward questions - and he starts to feel more in control. For the next few weeks he has enough to do breaking the rookie in and sending him around the system on errands, and he reluctantly pushes the problematic hero to the back of his mind. 

* * *

Gradually he arranges things so he’s spending less and less time in the Tower and more up on the Derelict; fearful of being caught away from his gear, all his careful preparations wasted, should the Darkness arrive when he’s not ready. He’s seen the Tower fall once, and countless other bastions likewise in his long life, and he’s learned to stay close to his escape routes and his stashes. As for her … well, she’s a distraction he can’t afford right now. 

She hasn’t been around as much, which makes it easier to put her out of his head. In fact his liquor consumption has almost returned to normal - which is to say, still enough to give a non-lightbearer an ulcer inside a month - but when she appears in the Gambit ready room after a month or so of absence he has to fight the sudden tension in him before stepping up to the platform to begin the pre-match spiel. She watches him go through the practised lines without reaction, ignoring both her team mates and the opposition as they posture and taunt each other across the gap. Has she always paid such close attention…? He can’t recall, but it makes him uneasy to think she’s been observing him all this time and he hadn’t noticed. 

He fights the urge to open a private comms channel to her as they land in the arena, frowning at the tremor in his hand as he toggles the all-team switch to announce the first wave of hostiles. She takes the invasion role for a change today; he watches, fascinated, as she spawns in the first time and takes out the enemy sentry with a melee attack before sniping the rest of them, clean one-shot kills, from clear across the arena … _nice. Damn it, I need her on my crew_. She hardly collects or banks at all, just supporting from the centre and keeping the bank clear until the portal comes up again, crossing over and wiping out the opposition with a different tactic each time. Expecting a sniper this time, they take cover and all go down to her shotgun or her fist as she sneaks up behind them. Watching over their shoulders for her to appear again, they bunch up in the open and fall to her rocket launcher. At the fourth invasion they spot her coming in and rush her, only to receive a solar hammer each. He crows delightedly with each encounter - he hasn’t been this entertained for a very long time. She's wasted on the Vanguard.

At match end she performs her usual vanishing trick - he didn't even see her go. Excusing himself, he dives to his console up on the bridge, snarls “to hell with it” and opens that private channel; no sound from the other end, but the panel light tells him it’s working. He licks his lips, takes a deep breath and rolls his tense shoulders before he speaks. “Hey hero,” he coos, oozing all the charm he can muster; “missed ya. How've ya been?”

There’s a long silence, and he’s a millisecond away from thumping the panel to see if the damn light is malfunctioning; then there’s a faint rustle, and the ghost's voice comes though. 

“Busy. Out on the Shore.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and grins. It’s the ghost he’s hearing, but the terse tone suggests it’s the guardian speaking. He looks aside into nothing for a moment.

“Well, it’s good to see ya. Come back soon, y’hear? Shouldn’t be too busy to have a little fun once in a while.”; and he cuts the comm, hoping that’s the right blend of casual and suggestive. Nothing to read into it ... unless you wanted to, of course.

He has to have her. Just once, he promises himself, just one time to get her off his mind. If it binds her to him somehow and he can make use of her for his schemes so much the better. He’s made her list once, he can do it again - he just has to make himself more interesting to her. Somehow.

* * *

In the end he doesn’t have to do anything. The breakthrough is pure accident - and in the last place he would have expected, too. There’s a market of sorts in one of the roughest parts of the city’s outskirts, right up against the outer wall, where the inhabitants make a living dragging in wreckage from the recent skirmishes outside and breaking them down for scrap. Sometimes they uncover old dwellings and bunkers, graves even, and systematically loot them for anything they can sell. The market, in fact the whole neighbourhood, is supposed to be off limits to Tower personnel because of the criminal activity there and the risk of them starting trouble they can’t handle; this isn’t an idle fear, there used to be incidents every week before the ban was put in place. The absence of authority makes it a perfect picking ground for him and others like him, and he’s not had any trouble from the residents. Well, maybe that one time … but the way he dealt with that one time has ensured there haven’t been any others. He can hold his own. 

Earth Autumn has always been his least favourite season, he reflects, scowling at the overcast sky and the fine drizzle slanting down between the low buildings. It’s been raining on and off for almost two days, and the narrow dirt streets here have been churned up into thick mud tracks, clogging up the shallow gutters in a matter of hours. There’s a tiny amount of shelter offered by purloined tarpaulins in Vanguard blue, stretched out to cover some of the stalls, and he takes advantage of it as he sorts through a pile of rusted needle files for some he can salvage. The din from the rain spattering down on the tarp makes it hard to hear conversations under here, and the light takes on a gloomy blue tint, occasionally brightening when the wind lifts a flap and blows it back up over the top of the stall. His senses are flooded with noise and gloom and he assumes it’s that that’s making him so irritable. No, hold on ...

… some ancient instinct, some peripheral visual cue of sudden stillness near him, tells him he’s being watched, and he looks up sharply. Through the stall in front of him and the one backing on to it there’s a figure halted in the next lane over, several feet away. It’s her … looking intently at what he’s doing rather than at him directly; her gaze is fixed on the five or six tools he’s selected in one hand while he digs through the pile with the other, and he can’t work out why that’s caught her attention. Before he can even react she nods a brief greeting at him and she's gone. He’s left wondering what she's even doing down here; this section of the bazaar is all given over to junk, not even advanced tech but rather piles of twisted scrap metal and rusted lumps, well-used mechanical parts and tools. What could she possibly be looking for?

He asks the vendor, mid haggle, “You get many guardians down here? Thought I saw one I know just know.”.

The old man shakes his head, “One or two regular, looking for old weapon parts to fix up. That’s about it. If they say anything they’ll be in more trouble than you will.”.

He thinks Drifter’s worried about snitches, he realises, and he doesn’t correct him. At least he’s got a lead now. Old weapons, huh - maybe banned Dark Age tech? He might just have a few things that’ll pique her interest.

He finishes beating the price down to his satisfaction, pays for the files, and heads straight back to the Derelict for a stock-take. As he goes through the manifest he grimaces at the mental image of himself laying some antique weapon at her feet like a tribute, like he’s some pathetic supplicant trying to earn her favour; then he shakes himself. _Big picture, pal. Pride be damned_. He’ll do whatever it takes to get past her guard. 

* * *

<I know that look.>

_i should think you ought to, by now_

<Are you seriously … is he back on the list?>

_maybe_

_yes_

_he just got more interesting_

<You just got more bored, you mean. Why don’t you run a few missions instead?>

_hm_

_no_

_this will be more fun_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say a big thank you to the lovely people who've indicated that they like this little fic, especially the awesome reader who took the time to give me some specific feedback in the comments. I may have actually hugged myself a bit when I read them. :)


	6. Skills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drifter finally gets a taste of victory. Sort of.

Late night on the Derelict, as far as it can be night in orbit. It’s late night by Tower time, anyway, which is what Drifter's working to these days to keep in sync with the rookie. He’s stripped down to a vest and tattered work trousers, swearing under his breath as he tinkers with some mechanical relays deep in the guts of the comms panel, trying to trace the source of some lag that interfered with matches a couple of times in the last few days. The maintenance is clearly long overdue; it took him the best part of five minutes at the start just to clear the build up of dust inside the panel so he could see what he was doing. He leans back now from the wiring loom to stretch out the knots in his shoulders and back from being hunched over for too long; times like this he really feels his age, and between this and the late hour he’s more than a little cranky. 

“I could use a drink,” he mutters to himself, “let’s see what we’ve got.”.

Grunting as he levers himself to his feet, he sets down his tools and heads to the back of the ship and the small container he keeps as a back up living space in case of sudden invasions; his bomb shelter, he calls it, stocked with things he can’t afford to replace and enough preserved rations for several weeks of frugal living. He recalls he’s got some decent whisky left in there from a few days before, probably a generous glassful remaining in the bottle, and he figures he can finish that off and put the panel back together before he bunks down for a few hours. 

It’s dark here at the back; no sense powering lights that nobody's using, and he knows the route by feel after all this time in any case. His confident footsteps echo on the pierced metal panels of the walkway as he makes his way through the gloom, subconsciously checking his little traps are still in place, ready to be set the next time he has to leave the Derelict unattended. Up ahead is the familiar bluish glow cast by the alien - fungus, flowers, whatever the hell they are - that thrive on the snow drifting in from the Haul; he can’t seem to eradicate them no matter what he tries, and he’s given up by now. At least they haven’t tried to eat him … yet.

As he rounds the last corner however, he can see a faint light spilling out of the container’s open hatch. He pulls up short, snow scrunching underfoot, and listens carefully. Yep, someone’s in there - there's a faint clink as they move. 

If he was cranky before, now he’s furious - this is _his_ space, one place nobody gets to see or interfere with, even the rookie has only been invited into this section once, and now someone has not only got on board the ship without him knowing, they’re up in his _stuff_, damn if he doesn’t make them regret the day they were born for this. He doesn’t even bother with stealth; there’s nowhere they can go. The container only has one opening and he’s filling it with his broad frame, arms raised to grip the top of the lintel, before they have a chance to stop what they’re doing.

He stops dead as it registers; it's her. 

She's sitting casually cross-legged up on the camp bed that serves as his bunk sometimes; unarmed, in casual civilian clothing in shades of blue and dark grey. A small handlight is propped up next to her on a fold of the sleeping bag, aimed at the wall behind her to cast a muted glow back into the room. She looks for all the world like a bored child left unattended in a shop; idly inspecting one of the jade coin blanks he keeps around for practice, turning it over in her hands to see the partly-finished carving and running her fingertips gently over the rough score marks left by the needle files. He doesn’t know what to do, or say. He’s still furious, but this is so far outside what he was expecting, the scene so incongruous, that he freezes. She’s noticed him, anyway. Without looking up, still inspecting the coin, she speaks softly so that he almost doesn’t hear her. 

“You carve these yourself ... I didn’t realise. That takes real skill.”.

She sounds intrigued, maybe even admiring. It takes a second for him to process that he’s hearing her actual voice rather than the ghost. Speaking to him again, at last - and compliments? Of all the things he’s capable of, all the things he knows, for this to be the one that catches her interest - and what the hell would she know about jade carving, anyway? True, there aren’t many people left with the know-how, but there are plenty of crafts you could say that about these days ... abruptly he realises his mind is wandering, and he impatiently dismisses the tangent. He shifts slightly to bring him just inside the doorway, lowering his arms and grimacing at the creaks from his abused muscles. The movement disguises his swift glance around the container; he can’t see anything out of place or missing, and he would know immediately if there were. The cabinets are still firmly closed, books and trinkets still in that specific arrangement he's memorised. So what’s she after? 

“Wasn't expectin' visitors.” he comments pointedly.

The coin is laid aside carefully on the pile with the others as she slides off the narrow bunk and stands to face him, tilting her head as she notes his bare arms, unashamedly appraising. Out of his costume he’s slimmer than people would suspect, but his powerful shoulders hint at the physical work he does every day, scorning the easy route of getting his ghost to do the heavy lifting. Aside from the scoring from old scars his skin is pale tan, almost golden in the dim light. It's clear she likes what she sees. He's been kicking around the system too long to be embarrassed by the attention, but he’s conscious he’s a mess right now, dishevelled and dusty, with his sweat-stained top sticking to his torso. If he’d ever imagined how a scene like this might play out - and who’s he kidding, he absolutely has - this is not how he’d choose to appear. 

She meets his gaze now with a hint of a smile and an apologetic half-shrug. “I got bored.”. 

He rolls his tense shoulders and manages a scornful laugh. “So, you thought you’d just drop by? Think I’m just gonna drop everythin' to entertain ya? I’m a little busy”. 

Unexpectedly that amuses her; her smile broadens and she gestures appreciatively at his muscles. “Oh, you’re already entertaining me.” she murmurs, but she moves obediently towards the doorway. She looks up as she passes him; there's something about her expression, frank and open ... the word _honest_ appears, unbidden, in his head. He tenses up again. _Don't be a fool. You can’t trust her_. He quells an impulse to close the gap and shove her against the workbench; he’s not sure right now if he’d rather choke the truth out of her or fuck her senseless, and he takes a deep breath to clear his mind of the sudden overlay of both mental images, and the emphatic twitch from his cock. _Fuck off_, he thinks, _not now. DOWN boy, goddammit_. 

She's speaking again, still in that soft tone. “Anyway. You said I should let you know if I had an opening. You’re back on my list.”.

He laughs disbelievingly. "Just like that?".

"Just like that. What can I say? I have _terrible_ impulse control.".

Mischief flashes across her face for a split second. _Damn _she looks delicious when she does that, and he finds himself automatically leaning closer, drawn in by the promise of it. He can't look away from the delicate line of her neck, shining pale against her dark shirt, the perfect skin begging to be marked; he wants to bury his face in her and find out how she tastes. And now he can smell her too, this close, a mixture of the soap she's washed in recently and an underlying note of citrus and natural musk. The messages go straight to his hindbrain and make all sorts of suggestions; he rolls his eyes and looks way to mask his discomfiture. 

"You come up here just to tell me that?".

"More or less. I thought maybe I'd try you out, if you want.".

_What the hell .._. He’s known some direct women in his time, but damn if they weren’t at least a bit excited at the prospect, passionate even, not this cool statement of intent. This is ... he honestly doesn't know what this is. He can't read her. There’s absolutely nothing about her body language that suggests she’s lying, or that she’s hiding anything, but this makes no sense to him. This isn't how it's supposed to go.

He forces himself to relax, and responds off-handedly. “And what if I don’t?”. 

That wicked grin breaks out, genuine mirth that reaches her eyes and threatens to bubble over into laughter. It’s in her voice as she spreads her hands wide and says “Then don’t.”, and she moves past him. One step. Two. Three, she's almost out … 

“Wait!”.

He curses internally; _fuck_, that sounded desperate. _Get a grip_, he scolds himself. “Just - hold on,” he says, more smoothly, “I mean, I said ‘if’ …”. 

She halts. “So you did.”. She stands for a moment studying his face, curiously intent; then she closes the gap and kisses him.

It’s a gentle overture, just the tip of her tongue probing his; then she captures his lower lip, grazing it lightly with her teeth before she releases him. She stays exactly there, almost touching but not, waiting for him to react … she’s waiting for consent, he suddenly understands. He’s paralysed by the realisation, by her consideration. Why is she offering him control? And what the hell is wrong with him, that he’s not taking it?

HIs body is quicker on the uptake, taking charge while his mind is still searching for angles. He moves forward to capture her mouth again; as he deepens the kiss he's already grinding against her, running one hand down her body to rest lightly above her hips and slip up under the hem of her shirt. Her bare skin is cool against his overheated hand, cool and smooth; he grips the soft flesh at her waist without even thinking about it, digging his fingers in and pulling her closer. There’s no space at all between them now. He can feel her breathing, her heartbeat … everything else has disappeared. There’s just her and the way she feels against him right here, right this second. It’s intense, all-consuming immersion in the moment, and it scares him. _She_ scares him. She barely touched him and he's desperate for more.

He pauses for a moment to try to gather his wits, leaning his forehead against hers and closing his eyes. It doesn’t help. He struggles to form a coherent thought beyond _I want_. He’s painfully hard against her already, just like that … _fuck, this is it … wonder if that bunk’ll take the weight _…

Suddenly they're interrupted by the klaxon of the transmat alarm. “Damn it!” he snarls, springing back. His silent ghost materialises, showing him the activation code. It’s the rookie, of course. _That’s just great, kid; TERRIBLE timing_. 

By the time he collects himself she’s already walking away, out towards the transmat pads, unconcernedly straightening her shirt and brushing off the dust that’s transferred from him to her. He hastily directs his ghost to send the rookie to the bridge out of the way, and follows her. His erection is subsiding but he's still buzzing slightly, skin tingling where she touched him. How can she look so calm? Doesn't she feel it? Still … a week ago he’d have given his right arm to have her look at him like she just did, never mind the kiss and the rest of it, so maybe there’s hope. Maybe she'll be back.

As she’s about to turn out of sight he calls after her; “So, uh … you get bored often?”.

She just grins, and her ghost interjects; “Oh, you have NO idea.” The grin becomes a laugh, _that_ laugh, and he can’t suppress his own smile at the sound; then she's gone, and he remembers too late that he never found out how she got on board without tripping any of his alarms, let alone into the very heart of his closely-guarded private space. _Damn_. 

* * *

He makes his way to the bridge where the rookie is standing, staring in dismay at the still-dismantled comm panel. “I thought you’d be done with this by now?” he complains, waving at the mess of wires and parts. 

“Yeah, well, I got interrupted. Twice, in fact - if you hadn’t turned up like that I was on my way to gettin' laid. Thanks for nothin', kid.” He smiles wryly to show there’s no hard feelings, and the rookie turns to look straight at him in disbelief. 

“You had a date? You should’ve said. I had no idea you were even up for that sort of thing these days.”

“Nah kid, nothin’ like that. Had a visit from someone I wouldn’t mind knowin' better, if you catch my drift. I ain’t lookin' for it, but if it comes lookin' for me I ain't turnin' it down.”. He settles in one of the command chairs, telling himself that what he just said isn’t technically a lie. 

Except it is, and he knows it. He’s not short of opportunity, contrary to the rookie’s unflattering assessment; he gets everything from flirty glances through to explicit vids from a subset of guardians who’d like to be the Drifter’s special someone. Trophy hunters, the pack of them, drawn in by what they imagine him to be, not one of them seeing him as a whole person. He’s ignored them all so far, claiming he doesn’t have the time, and that’s certainly true; but ... he reflects for a second. Not one of those offers made him come to the boil like a simple kiss from his silver titan. _There I go again_, he thinks, _MY titan. She ain’t mine yet_. 

He wonders why that caveat makes him so uncomfortable.

* * *

<Don’t look so smug.>

_can’t help it_

_resting smug face_

<That’s NOT a thing!>

_right now it is_

_that was very promising_

_don’t you think?_


	7. Hope Deferred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been months since he decided he was going to find a way to get close to the guardian, and he's been balked at every corner somehow, only ever making progress when they decide to allow it. And just when he thinks he's getting somewhere they disappear again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unashamed smut. There may be some plot in there somewhere too, but ... well, you get the idea.

The Tower’s a depressing place as the seasons turn colder. That’s what he tells himself anyway, blaming the weather for his darkening mood as night after night passes without a repeat visit from the titan. He should have known better than to get his hopes up. _Hope’ll get you killed_, he reflects silently, pouring himself another generous measure and knocking it back in one. 

He does smile faintly when he goes to shake out the sleeping bag on his bunk and her forgotten handlight falls out on to the floor, rolling under the bench. He crouches to retrieve it, turning it over in his hand; decent brand, albeit one of the cheaper options in the range, good for missions where you don’t want to be carrying expensive gear you might lose. Smart. 

He stands still for a long moment, imagining for the hundredth time how it would have gone if they hadn’t been interrupted. He doesn’t bother denying his own reaction, and she … well, she definitely seemed into it. Some things you can’t fake. But would she have taken it all the way? He still isn’t certain she’s for real. With all the pretty people she could be with, and he’s under no illusions any more about how many options she has available to her - why should she be sneaking around in the dark to proposition a battered old renegade like him? It's not right. It's a scam, has to be, some trick to get someone close enough to spy on him.

He can’t explain, and chooses to ignore, the twist in his gut at that theory. 

Queue gossip comes to his rescue before he has a chance to brood too deeply, informing him that she’s been switched on the roster, picking up patrol duty in the EDZ to cover a clanmate who’s needed elsewhere. _Fine, she’s busy. Whatever_. The seed of paranoia has been planted though, and he can’t quite shake it. There’s another old saying from who even knows where, ‘hope deferred makes the heart sick’, and right now that’s the most apt phrase he’s ever heard. 

* * *

Not that he’s keeping track, but the roster rotates every three weeks …and he’s coincidentally hanging around Tower-side when she finally returns, using her first day of downtime to catch up in a courtyard bar at lunchtime with some friends. He’s trying to keep a low profile today so he has to be satisfied with watching from the corner he’s chosen, camouflaged by the dozen or so vendors setting up their stalls for the afternoon market. He’s just close enough to see her face; her profile is turned to him as she sits hunched over on the low wall that bounds the bar’s outdoor seating area, resting her forearms on her knees and leaning forward to smile across at her friend who’s talking animatedly about something or other. Recounting a mission tale? Seems likely from the expansive arm-waving. He’s reminded of fishermen describing the one that got away - it was THIS big! - and he chuckles quietly to himself, black mood dispersed for now. 

She appears very male today, something about the set of her shoulders and her mannerisms that he can’t quite pin down. The overall effect is undeniable though, pitch perfect … he wonders idly if she studies, or if it’s an innate ability to blend in and be who she wants to be. Either way, that’s some skill, even down to her choice of clothing. She’s wrapped in a thick charcoal-grey jacket, with undress uniform pants and heavy boots completing the outfit. The jacket collar is turned up against the cold, its points almost touching her cheekbones, but then she shifts slightly and he gets a glimpse of the line of her neck peeking out from the shirt underneath. His hand twitches as he imagines how it would feel to rest it just _there_ on her throat, and how she’d look up at him as he did ...

He catches himself, blinks the fantasy away. _Later, maybe_. Time’s getting on and he needs to get back to business - not to mention he doesn’t want to get caught staring like a lovesick teenager.

* * *

A brisk walk through the back tunnels restores his focus; he checks in on the rookie, manning the basement for the day, and sends him off to take a break while he handles the next wave of Gambit bookings. He just has time to change into his usual garb before guardians begin straggling through the doorway and he starts fielding team submissions and bounty requests with practiced ease. If he’s occasionally searching for her face in the crowd, nobody notices.

Towards the end of the afternoon he looks up and there she finally is, trailing behind Maas, Dina and a fourth. He has to search the catalogue for the real name that goes with that face; his private name for the exo hunter is ’Carnage”, earned though their brutal efficiency during invasions. They were the first to take down a whole enemy team twice in a single invasion, and he ran out of new medals to give them a long time ago. _Arno-15_, his brain supplies, just as Maas steps up to the front of the line.

“Hey, brother.” He greets the warlock, taking the list and looking over the names. “Lookin' to ruin someone’s day today? See you brought the big guns!” He chuckles and waves a hand to indicate the exo and the titan, carefully avoiding catching her eye as he does so. Maas just grins. Drifter enters the names into the fixture list, relishing the groan that reverberates around the room as other guardians see who they might be up against. This is what he loves; in safer times he might be happy just running the game for its own sake, maybe open a bar down here to make more money off the guardians hanging around between matches. He shoves the beguiling alternate future away. These aren’t safer times, not by a long way, and he needs to focus.

At the last possible moment he risks a glance at her. He half wonders if she’ll greet him, if she feels they’re on the way to becoming intimate. The thought makes him freeze - he’s equal parts relieved and disappointed when she looks past him and turns away without a word.

* * *

“What have you done to poor Drifter? He could barely look at you.”.

_no idea what you mean_, she signs; the gleam in her eye suggests otherwise. 

“Never mind. I know that look. Should I warn him?”. 

_if you like_

Maas sniggers. “Yeah, he wouldn’t listen if I did. Ah well. He’ll find out one way or the other.”.

* * *

Resigned to yet another solo evening, he’s halfway through his second bottle of the night when he hears quiet footsteps approaching on the walkway outside the container. He’s on his feet and reaching for his gun before he’s registered that he hasn’t heard the transmat alarm, and he heads out towards the sound on silent feet. Rounding the corner he raises his weapon, takes careful aim, and opens his mouth to challenge the hooded figure coming towards him in the dim light. 

She halts before the words are fully formed, raising her hands in leisurely surrender as she sees the hand cannon levelled at her. He lets out an explosive breath and lowers the gun; she waits for a beat before relaxing her arms, smoothly converting the motion to remove the hood as she does so. 

“You again. One o' these days you’re gonna get yourself shot.”. 

She shrugs; _maybe_. 

“How d’you keep sneakin' on board, anyway?” he demands, exasperated. He isn’t expecting an answer, but he gets one; one slim hand indicates the transmat area behind her. 

“Maintenance overrides. That model came with factory presets.”. 

He rolls his eyes; overrides, of course. He should have known. But - “That model must be three hundred years old - how’d you even know that? They teach you that in Vanguard spy school?”. She adopts an expression of unholy innocence, and he can’t help but snicker. She doesn’t answer that question though, not that he thought she would. 

He sighs exaggeratedly and turns away with a gesture of vague welcome; “Well, you’re here - might as well come in.”; and he heads back into the container, flicking the safety on his gun and stowing it on the workbench. There’s a mouthful of whiskey left in his glass, and he drains that too while he gathers his wits, watching her step through the hatch. _What’s she planning …?_

Her thin hooded top is comfortably loose, but there are no telltale bulges that might be weapons; same goes for the uniform pants slung low on her hips. She looks relaxed, benign, looking about her at the contents of the container like any guest assessing their host’s decor, reading the spines of the books on the shelves and stopping for a moment when one catches her interest. Delayed hope surges though him - there’s no threat display; it’s a social call, she’s back for more, must be. 

She gets closer, stepping forward absently to peer at the glass-fronted shelf just beside him, and his nostrils flare as he takes in her scent. He wonders how she can be so alluring with so little skin on display, standing there so matter-of-factly … why the hell does she affect him like this? Even if this is exactly what she says it is, he’s still taking a huge risk letting her get this close. He shifts uncomfortably; maybe he should send her away before she can get any more of a grip on him. Maybe it's already too late. 

A faint frown draws her brows together as she senses his unease. 

“You’re still not sure.”. 

It’s not a question. He freezes miserably, torn between the easy out and the gripping fear that she won’t ask again, that this is his last chance; she reads his indecision and turns away before he can speak. 

“I’ll go.”. Just like that, calmly accepting. 

_Ah, to hell with it_. “No - ” he makes a gentle grab for her arm before she can move out of reach, and searches for words to smooth over his momentary panic. “Just about broke my heart watchin’ you walk away last time. Ain’t lettin’ it happen again.”. 

* * *

He's not risking any interruptions this time; he shoots terse instructions at his ghost to lock down the ship, nobody on or off until he says otherwise, and turns back in time to see her faint smirk. 

“Good thinking.” she murmurs approvingly. 

“Well, I have my moments.”. 

He considers swiftly; the bunk ought to hold up to this. The alternative is his other sleeping space, clear across the ship, and he toys with the idea of taking her there; but he’s getting harder by the second and his legs are beginning to tremble already. He thinks better of it. _Maybe next time_, he decides. _If I want a next time_. 

There’s a hint of swagger as he moves in front of her and lifts her easily to sit on the bunk, forcing her knees apart and closing in to resume that interrupted kiss. Her fingers instantly tangle in his hair and he shivers; just like that he’s right back where they left off, his senses flooded with her, straining to take her in. 

He buries his face in the angle where her neck meets her shoulder, just peeking out of the shirt, and breathes her in; citrus and spice and that hint of musk again. Delicious. He can’t resist biting down on the tender skin, grinning triumphantly as her hands stop their lazy stroking and grip his shoulders, fingertips digging in as she struggles for composure. A breathless moan is dragged from her and he shudders slightly at the answering frisson that runs through him. _Damn, that’s a sweet sound_ … he’s gonna struggle to make this last if she keeps that up. Time to step it up. He gropes for the hem of her shirt, sliding both hands under the thin fabric to encounter bare flesh, and pulls back in surprise to look at her.

“What’s this … you naked under there, hero? Damn, you come prepared.”. 

Her teeth flash in a feral grin. “It saves time.”. 

She lifts the shirt smoothly over her head and tosses it aside, holding his gaze. She’s not in the least embarrassed; not that she needs to be … by damn she’s perfect, smooth and pale all the way up and down; lean without being gaunt, a short waist flaring to slightly rounded hips, and her small breasts just enough to be an easy handful for him. He tests his theory, cupping one in a calloused hand, coaxing her nipple to harden against his palm. She’s as silent as ever, but her breathing comes quicker; she leans back on her hands to give him easier access, biting her lip as his hands wander over her. He’s transfixed, exploring the curves and planes of her body; she’s enough to make one of those ancient sculptors bite through his chisel in frustration.

All paranoia, all hesitation is forgotten; he needs this now, and to hell with the consequences. That’s tomorrow’s problem. Her pants and boots quickly follow her discarded shirt into the corner somewhere and he leans in again between her thighs, fumbling to free his aching cock; lining up and sinking into her swiftly with a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. He’s desperately trying to keep it together - not easy, with the way her eyes roll back in her head - and _oh fuck_ the sounds he’s pulling out of her now, breathless moans rising in pitch as he thrusts into her … no angelic choir ever sounded as sweet as that silvery voice does right now. 

He bites down on her shoulder again, smirking at the hitch in her breathing, and brings his lips to her ear. “You like that, hero?” he murmurs; for answer he gets a shaky nod, another moan, and her nails scoring down the back of his neck. He groans at the sensation, a blissful shudder going right down to his toes … _fuck yes, do that again_… and slides one arm around her waist to hold her firmly in place as he speeds up. His eyes are squeezed shut as he drives into her at a crazy pace, racing to finish. He couldn’t hold back now if he tried. 

The tiny container is filled with noise now; the slap of skin on skin, the sounds she’s making, his harsh breathing, the alarming creaks from the bunk’s frame - _please hold up, please don’t collapse, damn, so close now _\- he whimpers unashamedly as he feels his peak building. A second later he’s falling, seeing stars, exploding helplessly deep inside her. He shouts as he tumbles over the edge, a wordless cry of release, or maybe it was only in his head. He doesn’t know, doesn’t care. He’s falling still, buried in her, wrapped around her, gripping her soft flesh so tight he’s going to leave bruises.

She lets out a long trembling sigh and slowly goes limp against him; he feels it rather than hears it, his own heartbeat pounding in his ears and drowning out everything else. He concentrates on milking every second of bliss, conscious he’s close to collapsing; _damn, it’s been too long_. Maybe a knee-trembler was a bad idea, at his age. But the way she feels against him right now … he’d sell his soul to have it last just a little longer. 

Eventually he pulls out with a quiet groan and falls back heavily into the chair he hopes like hell is where he remembers it being. Luckily it’s close enough. He slumps into it gratefully, pulling his trousers across to cover his softening cock, and glances up at the titan. She’s still where he’s left her, leaning back on her arms and breathing hard - what a beautiful sight, the usually composed hero reduced to a hot mess. He allows himself a flash of smugness; _look what I did_. He hopes she's feeling it as much as he is. 

She takes a long moment to gather herself, a satisfied smile quirking her mouth, then slides bonelessly off the bunk. He watches in dismay as she starts pulling on her clothes. 

“Done already? I reckon I got more in me ...” He waves weakly down at himself to indicate he may need a minute.

“I’m sure you do.”. She stops in front of him with a grin and leans in to kiss him, balancing herself with a hand flat on his chest. "But I have somewhere to be.”. She finishes pulling on her shirt as she steps through the doorway, no trace of exhaustion now, and he can’t hold back a disbelieving laugh. That’s some recovery.

“You’re somethin’, you know that?”.

She tilts her head in agreement, almost out of sight. He calls after her, “I’d see you out, but I ain’t sure my legs would hold me up right now.” He hears, rather than sees, the snap of her fingers as she disappears.

He huffs a laugh. _Yeah, ’skills’, you got that right._


	8. Careful What You Wish For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drifter's having trouble dealing with the morning after, despite getting exactly what he wanted.

The container seems very empty once she’s gone. He glances behind him at the workbench, certain there was something in amongst all that clutter that he ought to be working on, but right now he can’t think of what it was or why it was important. Whatever it was, it can wait. Instead he stretches out on the bunk and falls quickly into a deep sleep. 

The combination of the unaccustomed physical exertion and the endorphins conspire to switch him off for a solid six hours, leaving him dizzy and disoriented when he’s finally woken up by the distant buzzing of the incoming comms alarm. He staggers to the bridge to answer it, realising as he does that he’s still in last night's clothes, rumpled and faintly sticky; and somehow her scent is still on him, rising up from the folds of his shirt and swirling around him as he moves. He’s not normally one for excessive grooming, but he suddenly needs to feel clean before anything else. Some symbolism perhaps; closing a chapter, washing away all traces of her and the night’s activities, something like that - so, a shower and a change of clothes is first on his list, then coffee, and whoever the hell this is lighting up his message panel better have something interesting to say. 

He scans the message header cursorily in case it’s urgent; turns out to be a contact on the Shore, letting him know there are some goods coming on to the market that he might want to bid on. Interesting enough … the attached manifest can wait until after he’s cleaned up and brewed some coffee, and he stomps off to take care of both those things.

* * *

An hour later he’s clean, caffeinated and ready to run the first match of the day; scrutinising rosters for the arriving teams, he notes with relief that there’s no silver titan. He’s not sure he could face her this morning. That’ll pass, he tells himself, now he’s had her once; with that one indulgence he promised himself, the sexual tension will dissipate, the spell will be broken and she’ll be nothing more to him than just another resource - and he can finally offer her a place on his crew, too, as soon as the time is right. He should be elated, or at least content - but somehow all he is right now is oddly blank. There’s too much needs doing right now for him to waste time worrying about what that might mean; he gets on with his preparations.

The day’s matches run smoothly, and if he's running on autopilot there’s no outward sign of it. He delivers his lines, laughs at his own terrible jokes, makes the announcements just as he always does, and before he really knows it they’ve reached the end of the final match and there’s still no sign of her. He sees everyone off with, as far as they know, his usual good cheer; and as the final guardian transmats out he lets his smile fade back to a cold, neutral expression. 

He stands for a moment staring at the empty pads ; then he heads back to the bridge, fires a brief message to the rookie and sets course for the Shore. 

* * *

The goods turns out to be as promised; some armoured hull plating off the recently uncovered wreck of a Golden Age exploration frigate, being broken down and sold off in tiny lots so as not to alert scavengers to the prize. A couple of days later he’s huddled in a dingy Fallen tavern in Thieves Landing, nailing down the final price with the seller. It’s a good venue for this sort of business, light on rules and heavy on minding your own damn business, and frequented by all the most useful - to him - people who kick around this part of the Shore. It’s furnished with salvaged ship fittings from the various wrecks tangled up in the asteroid belt, a mishmash of styles and eras that would send a historian into fits if they saw how they’d been jammed together, but it all works somehow. It’ll never be an upscale joint, but the vibe is as relaxed and eclectic as its patrons. 

Currently it’s what passes for a quiet shift; late afternoon local time, with just one server behind the bar and maybe twenty customers scattered about in small groups here and there. With his deal almost concluded he sits back and raises his glass to take a drink, scanning the room swiftly for any signs of anyone paying too-close attention to him and his companion. Nope - all clear, as far as he can see. Everyone seems to be busy with their own business. He relaxes back into his ornate high-backed seat - lifted from the command bridge of a Hive tomb-ship by the look of it - and stares down at nothing, enjoying a rare moment of stillness.

Just then he hears the telltale whine of a Tower-issue sparrow outside, and he rolls his eyes. Guardians sometimes try to play tough, come and drink and gamble in here as if they aren’t killing its clientele by the dozen on any other day, and it rarely goes well. He likes to watch a good bar fight as much as the next uninvolved bystander, but he needs to get this deal safely in the bag before anything kicks off. He keeps one eye on the door and the other on the seller; a small-time dealer in salvaged ship parts who’s just hit the jackpot of their quiet career. They’ve little concept of the true value of what they’re selling, which suits him just fine; they’ll find out eventually just how much they missed out on with this deal, but he’ll be long gone by then - and with all the paperwork in order, too. Speaking of which, they need to step it up … he twitches with impatience at how slow they are as they finish scanning the final clause and add their authority to the transfer documents.

Just in time, too … there’s a pointed hush in the hum of conversation as two figures walk in; first up a small Fallen, one of Spider’s crew with his long quills quivering down his back, and the noise creeps back up as everyone relaxes. Then there’s another lull as a guardian in full armour follows him, and the hooded figures in the dim recesses of the room turn to scrutinise them. It’s not subtle. If they’ve got any sense they’ll turn and walk out as fast as they came in.

Seems they haven’t heard of that concept; they keep advancing. _Here we go … _he rapidly sweeps the completed paperwork in front of him into an untidy pile and tucks it away, grabbing his glass for good measure. No sense seeing good liquor go to waste. 

The guardian follows their companion to the bar and raises a hand to order drinks; to Drifter’s surprise the surly Dreg complies without fuss, even going so far as to exchange a few pleasantries with the new customer. He sits up a little straighter to see what’s going on, watches as they turn and make their way across the room to a clear table. _Well I’ll be damned_. It’s his silver titan. She shouldn’t be rostered for the Shore yet, it’s less than a week since she was on patrols … what’s going on here?

She picks up a few nods and greetings from other patrons on her way across the room, and from the way the assorted Fallen customers react to her it’s clear they don’t see her as a problem. He frowns down at the table in front of him, unseeing. She’s been on his mind the past couple of days, as much as he’d like to pretend otherwise, and he still hadn’t decided how to handle future interactions. Her unexpected appearance right where he happens to be feels like more than a coincidence, too. _Vanguard spy_, whispers his paranoia. Or worse, _Praxic_… He has no idea which is more likely. Neither faction worries him unduly, but he can’t be taking a spy on to his crew. Or to his bed. He waves that addition aside; that’s not a problem, he’s already decided it won’t be happening again. 

He hangs back and observes for a while to see if he can pick up any hint of what’s brought her here; she doesn’t seem to have spotted him on the way in, and she doesn’t seem to be looking for him now. Instead she’s talking quietly to her .. friend? associate? hard to tell, but they’re carrying on an involved conversation that lasts for several drinks. There’s that animation in her that he’s observed before when she’s amongst friends - she’s talking in what looks to be fluent Fallen, even down to the gestures of emphasis, her gloved hands somehow deftly mimicking three claws. Where's she been hanging out, to develop such fluency? He wonders if he can find out anything from Spider … then grimaces as he calculates how much it’ll likely cost him, either in currency or in knowing jibes, if he seems to be taking an interest in her. Probably a bad idea to expose himself like that; he’ll deal with it in his own way. 

As her companion leaves he stands up and heads over, claiming the newly-empty seat across from her with a decisive flourish and making himself comfortable. 

“Hey, hero.” he greets her casually. “A little way off your usual beat, huh. You followin' me?”. 

He makes it sound like he’s teasing, but his eyes flick sharply up to her face as he asks the question, hoping to catch a reaction before she can mask it. He’s rewarded, kind of … the look on her face can only be described as - _seriously? get over yourself_. He grins ruefully and sits back.

“I guess that’s a ‘No’. So … how come you’re here? Thought you’d be off-roster for a few more days.”.

For a second he thinks she might answer - she looks down as if considering responses; then she takes a thoughtful sip of her drink, sets the glass back down, gazes across the room at nothing. The silence stretches out ... he sighs, defeated. 

“Okay, I get it. None o’my business.”. She just smiles into her drink, and he shakes his head. Well, if he’s working both sides of this conversation, at least he can say what he wants to say.

“Look, the other night;” he starts, abruptly, then tailing off at her look of polite enquiry; “… ya know, you shouldn’t read too much into that.” No response; she seems to be waiting for more. “I mean, it was nice and all, just … yeah. Convenient. I ain’t into attachments.”

She doesn’t exactly look heartbroken, or even surprised; in fact she looks more like he just pointed out that water is wet and Hive are crunchy, and she’s too polite to say _well, duh _… He gives it a second more to see if she's going to speak, unaccountably put out by her calm reaction, but it seems she has nothing to add. Time to cut his losses then; he stands up and looks towards the door. 

“Okay, well, good. Glad we had this little talk.”.

She tilts her glass in an ironic toast as he steps away and heads out. Now he feels like a fool; he shouldn’t have bothered. Should’ve played it cool, ignored her. He won’t make that mistake again.

Uninvited, the memory of her naked and trembling against him comes to the top of his mind and he stops dead in the tunnel for a moment to recover his balance. _Get a grip_, he tells himself sternly. It’s fast becoming his mantra.

* * *

He’s more than grateful for her absence from Gambit for the next few days; when he thinks about her, which is still far too often, it’s either the unsettling memory of the night in the container, or the mockery in her eyes as she watched him walk out of the bar. He’s honestly not sure which makes him feel worse. Late nights are the worst, when the memory twists into all the other things he wishes he’d had time to do to her, imagined scenarios leaving him achingly hard and frustrated, unable to sleep. He does his best to shake it off; _it’ll pass_, he tells himself, gritting his teeth.

Just as he’s beginning to think he’s got on top of it, there she is again, somewhere in the gaggle of faces waiting in the basement. He watches her from across the room, trying not to stare too obviously; even when she’s in full armour he still wants to press her against the nearest wall and kiss her till she’s dizzy. Even better, if everyone else could just get lost maybe he could drag her round the corner to the storage area, sit her up on that shelving rack there … his eyes glaze over for a second at the mental image before he shakes himself back to reality. 

_Damn it. This ain’t goin’ away._


	9. Mister Smooth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drifter is having to learn how to ask for what he wants instead of trying to manipulate it out of people. As learning curves go it's short, scary, and unexpectedly rewarding.

He casts his eye over the room, assessing the crowd. People offering team lists, he waves forward first; that takes care of setting up the match fixtures for the following day and gets rid of over half the line. Next he calls on guardians apparently at random, shifting and turning so he can pick whoever appears to have caught his eye as he stops. It doesn’t take long until she's the only person left in line, waiting patiently with a handful of bounty notices from the board. He stalls while he considers what to say, trying to ignore the way his stomach flips; by contrast she's standing at perfect ease, staring past him at the bank in apparent fascination. He wonders how she maintains that air of calm; whether she’s even conscious of the tension, or if it’s all on his side. 

Even as the last guardian turns out of sight he’s still not certain what he’s going to say; but the moment is stretching out, the footsteps and chatter in the tunnel outside quickly fading to nothing and a restful silence falling back. He needs to do something before anyone else turns up. Almost without thinking he moves around her to the doorway, pulling down the shutter to just below halfway like he usually does when he needs to step out for a second on some errand - that ought to ensure a little privacy. One hand still on the shutter, he squares his shoulders and finally looks at her.

“Let's talk, hero.”. 

She turns to face him, a faint question in her eyes, and he ploughs on before he can second-guess himself. 

“I was thinkin' - I reckon we were good together. Right …? Tell me it ain’t my imagination.”. 

She smiles reminiscently, to his great relief - good, he didn’t fail to impress. Nevertheless there's a faint frown drawing his brows together as he continues; “I thought … maybe you’d be back for more.”. 

She registers the unspoken anxiety - he has no idea how engaging it is, that suggestion of vulnerability; if he did he’d find a way to use it to his advantage, without a doubt. She steps towards him thoughtfully and hands him the bounties she’s holding. Automatically he takes them from her, but his eyes are fixed on her face as she weighs up what he’s just said.

“Is that what you want?”, she asks curiously.

Her direct question catches him off guard, and he rocks back for a second. _Damn it, she knows_. She’s not asking if he wants more sex; she’s asking if he’s sure he wants to risk getting more involved with her. Does he? _Should_ he? Running through his reasoning in his own mind, he comes up blank. Reason hasn’t played a large part in his decisions around her so far; but he can’t just up and tell her he can’t get her off his mind. _Get a grip_, he tells himself, and strives for an offhand tone.

“Well,” he drawls, as casually as he can manage; “I ain’t got time for attachments … don’t suppose you do either. But yeah, that was fun. I’d be up for doin' it again sometime, in case you were wonderin'”. 

Is there a hint of satisfaction in the narrowing of her eyes? He can’t be sure, but it looks like it. Her face warms with a slight smile.

“Okay. I’ll come by when I have some time.”. 

It’s that same directness she’s shown before; what could be a minefield of emotions, assumptions and misunderstandings is, for her, just a conversation. A transaction, even. _You want me to come, I’ll come_. If only all his interactions were as uncomplicated, he reflects. The sheaf of forgotten bounties is still in his hand, and she drops her gaze to them as if to remind him; he hastily leafs through them and goes to make a note of them in his system. By the time he looks up from the console she’s already gone, ducking under the shutter and turning calmly out into the tunnel heading into the main Tower.

“O….kay. I think that went well.” he mutters, to no-one in particular. 

* * *

It’s over a week later that she finally comes up to the Derelict, appearing on the walkway outside the bridge this time. His ghost pops up to alert him and he goes out to meet her. He’s gonna have to fix that transmat vulnerability, he realises; if she can just show up unannounced then so can other less welcome visitors. It’s early evening this time, rather than the middle of the night, and she's still in full armour after a day’s duties. Good; might be this time he gets to unwrap her bit by bit, take his time. 

She half-turns as she sees him, heading to the back, and he holds up a hand - “Nah, this way.” He gestures back to the bridge, and her brows quirk up in surprise as she follows him across the command area; he leads her to the crawlspace off to the left that serves as his bedroom when he needs more than a nap on the camp bed. Although _crawlspace_ is a misnomer; it’s almost full head height inside aside from a couple of slanting beams, broad steel struts placed to brace the internal structure against crushing in the event of an impact. She ducks briefly to go through the hatch before standing up straight, taking it in with the same curious gaze she had in the container. There’s not much to see; it’s functional rather than luxurious, just a couple of thin sleeping mats covering the metal floor and a nest of blankets and cushions carelessly heaped in one corner. However it’s more than roomy enough for two - a major advantage over the camp bed. He follows her in and drops the hatch to close off the space from prying eyes.

She turns at the sound and smiles slightly at his intent expression, moving to slide off her gauntlets and release the buckles on the rest of her armour pieces. He swallows, trying to ignore the tightening in his pants, and steps forward to help. Excitement is coursing through him already, making his hands shake imperceptibly, but his dextrous fingers know their way round the buckles and catches by feel, cracking the cold shell of the armour to get to the warmth waiting underneath. He catches his breath as his fingers finally brush against bare skin, just a brief touch at the gap between her pants and shirt. 

At the back of his mind a little voice is chiding him for his impatience; _damn boy, at least offer the girl a drink first, whatever happened to Mister Smooth?_ … but underneath there’s another voice, louder and darker, much less articulate, muttering _want, take, mine_ over and over again. Mister Smooth can fuck off; he’s right where he wants to be, with the girl in his arms and a wall to press her against. He does so, cupping her face and kissing her hard. She doesn’t protest; her hands come up and caress his neck, then up to remove his headband, ruffling his hair and scratching his scalp. The touch sends shivers down his spine - she can do that some more, as far as he’s concerned. 

This is everything he’d been wanting; the feel of her as his hands begin to explore under her clothes at last somehow more titillating than if she were totally naked. He wants to make this last, in contrast to his impatience last time - but as she moves against him and hums softly at his touch he knows he’s going to struggle with that. His hands trace over her skin one more time before he moves to undress her.

The shirt goes first, revealing underwear that’s somewhere between a sports bra and a binder; as that comes off too her small breasts spring free, nipples hardening instantly under his touch. He pinches one sightly, rolls it between his finger and thumb, notices the hitch in her breathing in response. There’s an answering twitch from his erection, impatient to be freed, and he moves a hand back to her hip to pull her against him, seeking friction. “_Damn_,” he whispers shakily, and slides his hands under the waistband of her pants, pushing them down. 

He kneels to get them all the way off, and instantly buries his face in the sparse curls between her legs, glorying in the unmistakeable scent of her arousal and the way her hands clench in his hair, urging him closer. His pants are unbearably constricting now, and he frees his cock quickly, grasping it firmly for some relief while he works his other hand teasingly around her sex, just brushing the wetness he can feel gathering there; she breathes harder and rolls her hips towards him in mute demand. The buzzing has started again in his ears, blood pounding, and he wants, _needs_ to be inside her. _Mine, mine, all mine _… He grabs her ass and presses forward, sucking on her clit, making her gasp and pull his hair again. He grins against her and redoubles the pressure.

As her knees buckle he expertly catches her, lowering her smoothly to the cushions. He sits back for a moment on his haunches to admire the view, running his hands up and down her body while she stares unselfconsciously back, her gaze flicking down to his cock and back up to his face as she waits for him to move again. He takes in the smooth limbs spread for him, the light dancing under her skin, and he wonders at how passive she is in this moment, how content to let him take the lead. 

Something of that must have shown in his face because she leans up smoothly and grasps his shirt, pulling him down a short way. “You’re overdressed,” she scolds; “I want to see you.” She seals the statement with a brief kiss, nipping at his lip, and breaks off to raise his shirt over his head for him to remove. He hastily obeys - and too late remembers the ugly scars scoring his torso, suddenly and unexpectedly self-conscious. He halts, eyes shut in pre-emptive pain, waiting for the inevitable exclamation of surprise or disgust. 

It doesn’t come. 

He cautiously opens his eyes as he feels her tracing the marks, teasing the edges where the rough scar tissue meets healthy skin, just where it’s most sensitive. It’s the most sensuous, generous touch he’s felt in a very long time, and he holds perfectly still as he watches her face - could be a trick of the dim light, but she seems both fascinated and approving. It's unreal; absolutely the last reaction he would have expected.

“Yeah, I know, I’m a mess.”; he tries to turn it off casually. He doesn't need her pity; his scars were earned, and they are what they are. But her hands haven’t stopped moving on him, exploring every mark, and now she's tracing the firm muscles of his abdomen with equal concentration.

“God, no.” she breathes. "You’ve no idea how fine you are … “. He grimaces, and she leans back up, bringing her face close to his and stroking the frown lines as if to smooth them away. “Every scar is a trophy. Some fucker tried to kill you, and it failed.”. She grins fiercely. “It's a survival tally.”. 

He lets out a shaky breath; _right answer, hero_, he thinks. _If you ain’t perfect, you sure know how to pretend to be_. All the tension leaves him; he closes the gap and kisses her deeply, falling slowly down to the mat with her beneath him. She parts her thighs quickly to bring him close, and as he enters her in one long stroke he feels her legs wrap around his back, her arms around his neck, her skin against his at last. 

“Fuck …” he mumbles, as she arches up to him, “oh … _fuck_... ”, and he can’t stop himself now, as much as he wanted to take his time … the sensation is just too much, her matter-of-fact acceptance of him just as he is is all too much, and the way she mutely pleads for more, the way she moves against him, the way her skin slides against his, is all too much. He’s lost before he even got started. 

He props himself up and reaches back to grip her thigh, tilting himself to get the perfect angle; grunting as her fingertips dig in to his shoulders, he’s getting close already and … _oh fuck_ he’s so close _don’t cum_ he orders himself, _not yet_, he wants her to get there with him, _don't cum _… just a little longer … _shit that feels so good _… he has to slow slightly to calm himself, running his hand back up her body to cup her face for another kiss … that’s better, he’s back in control, _oh that’s good_ … _could do this all night, fuck that’s amazing _… cautiously speeding up again and leaning up a little to go deeper … _oh yeah, there it is, right there _… _oh fuck wait a minute_ there are those sounds she makes again, breathless appreciation of everything he’s doing, everything he is, _damn that sounds so sweet_ … and just as he thinks he’s got it under control she braces herself under him, gripping his biceps, nails digging in; her legs tighten around him as her body arches up off the mat again and she throws her head back, crying out … _ah now, that’s a beautiful sound oh shit shit SHIT HERE I GO_ \- and he’s gone, helplessly spilling over the edge with a string of curses muffled against her shoulder. The dark voice in his head roars in triumph and finally goes quiet.

_Fuck. That didn’t last any time at all. _He burrows into her, breathing hard, willing his heart to stop racing. It’s intense; he feels more than ever vulnerable, weak for this feeling and for her. He wracks his brain for something to say, anything, to lighten the moment. She beats him to it. 

“So. Definitely not your imagination.”.

He snickers weakly, grateful for the perfectly-timed levity, and lifts his head to see her answering grin. Such a contrast between the stoic, androgynous hero and this mischievous woman-child; _chameleon_, he thinks, and he wonders how many personalities she keeps in store for private moments with different people. It’s more than just cosmetic. She’s a totally different person here and now; he’s no stranger to being whoever he needs to be, and he knows it when he sees it. 

She shifts slightly and he rolls slowly off her on to his back, landing with a faint ‘oof’ as his shoulders hit the mat.

“You gotta rush off again?”. 

She just stretches happily and stays where she is, perfectly relaxed. “I have a little time still.”.

He nods, not trusting his voice fully yet, and contemplates the metal struts in the ceiling above him. She doesn’t seem inclined to pillow talk; he’s glad of it. Although now he comes to consider it, he’s not sure they actually have anything to talk about … this relationship, if that’s what it is, revolves around the physical. That’s fine. Well, it’ll have to be fine; he daren't hope for more. 

They lie in silence for another minute, then he remembers … “I need to patch that transmat security hole. Sorry hero, no more sneakin' aboard.”. She chuckles and he turns his head to look at her. “I’ll set up a code; you’re welcome anytime, ya know?”. 

”Even if you think I'm a Vanguard spy?”.

He smirks. “Ain’t bothered - but you be sure'n tell 'em how good I am in bed.”

He delights in the genuine laugh that rips through her at that; decides right then it’s his personal mission from now on to hear that sound as often as possible. She rolls over to him and presses a kiss to his shoulder, before falling into a mock-solemn demeanour. “Mission status: three orgasms, no fatalities.”, she intones in a pitch-perfect parody of official Tower comms. He grins. 

“Well, we’re only at one, by my tally. C’mere.”.

* * *

He delivers on his promise. By the time they’re done they’re both slick with sweat and other fluids, flushed, panting in unison, and the smell of sex fills the small space. As they part for the final time she rises almost instantly, starts reaching for her gear and puts herself back together with practiced speed. _Mission ready in two minutes_, he thinks. _Well trained_. He remembers abruptly that he needs her fully on his side, and wonders if it’s too soon to broach the subject of her joining his crew … no, not yet. For now he’ll play it cool. 

“What, no aftercare?” he asks plaintively, with a smirk. She looks down at him sprawled naked on the cushions, hands behind his head, and grins faintly. 

“I really don't think you’re the cuddling type.”

And she's gone, through the hatch and away without waiting for fond farewells or an escort. Absolutely confident in this space, HIS space, _damn her_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally the second part of the previous chapter, but it ended up being way too long plus I wasn't happy with the ending so I held it back for a bit of extra editing. Apologies for the way it breaks up the flow, if I can find a way to stitch it together more neatly I'll sort it out it later. 
> 
> Also - plot, what plot? Enjoy :)


	10. Whimsy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Drifter. One step forward, two steps back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited slightly; I realised we'd lost track of Sully's gender-fluidity somewhere along the way, with Drifter thinking of them as female all the time, so I've added some clarifying dialogue. Sully doesn't care how people read them or what pronouns they use, as they vary in presentation according to their mood and let people go with whatever makes sense. As Sully is largely a shameless self-insert, this mirrors the author's attitude :)

When he wakes next morning it’s like she’s still there, the smell of her all round him, and he takes a deep breath in as he surfaces. He almost reaches for her, but then his brain supplies the memory of her leaving the night before; the hand he’d raised to explore the space next to him twitches and relaxes back again as the realisation settles. Ah well, no time to brood - he needs to get on. He levers himself upright, staring thoughtfully at the tangle of blankets at his feet while he scratches his beard and stretches. Everything’s going to need cleaning and airing, he realises; it’ll be all too obvious what’s been happening in there. Not that he minds, but he doesn’t want the rookie making sly comments - kid’s got cocky lately now the partnership’s established. 

Once he’s cleaned himself up he methodically clears the room, bundling everything up and dumping it out at the back beside the container. It was about time he changed things round a little anyway - he has more soft furnishings stashed on board, better quality too, and he pulls a few out of storage to check them over. As he mulls the options he’s struck by the recollection of her clan’s sleeping arrangements, all of them piled together in a heap, and a plan forms in his head; he grins to himself as he pulls extra out of the store and heads back to the bridge to rig up something to scrub the air.

* * *

A full roster rotation passes before he even sees her again; now he knows she’ll likely be back he’s able to keep his impatience in check a little better. She’ll come when she comes. Doesn’t stop him mentally ticking off the days until he can expect her again though. 

In the intervening days he turns his mind to the question of crew for his next excursion, flexing his manipulation muscles by charming and coaching some of the prospects in his cohort of new Dredgens. Some useful skills emerging there, and the added benefit that they’re nearly all younger; not entirely naive when it comes to human nature and the politics of the Vanguard, but inclined to make up their own minds about where they stand. Independent thinkers have always been his favourite prey - smart enough to be useful, but also self-centred enough to reject their elders' received wisdom, even the stuff they should have listened to. Makes them easy to turn to his way of thinking. And nine times out of ten their pride stops them turning back again. 

Around about the day he expects to see her again he makes sure he’s alone on the Derelict, working his way through a bottle of whiskey and reviewing his lists; if she doesn’t show then the evening won’t have been completely unproductive. He’s almost got a full roster sketched out, one or two places still to be filled … if he gets his way, she’ll be one of them. 

Just before midnight the transmat notification flashes up with the code he gave her, and he allows himself a moment of smug satisfaction as he hits the authorisation.

She arrives on the bridge by the time he’s finished hunting for a second glass; as she steps through the hatch he waggles the bottle at her suggestively. “Got time for a drink?” A shrug; he takes it for assent, and pours her a generous measure. You can’t get Risen drunk, at least not enough to make them really foolish, but they can get a buzz from it. He figures a little buzz will do nicely. 

She sinks into the second command chair, draws up her legs and crosses them - she's slight enough, or the chair is wide enough, that she can do so comfortably. For a moment she looks like a child sitting up at the adults' table, and he wonders how old she really is. How long risen, rather. It’s only supposed to have been a tiny handful of years, if the stories about her timeline are correct, but her confidence and the things she knows belie that. As for her appearance - she could pass for anywhere between eighteen and forty, depending on her gender presentation and body language. She comes across as childlike because of her outlook; frank, curious, unconstrained - untroubled by the quivering insecurities that adulthood usually bestows. It’s an enviable state. For a second he feels every one of his accumulated centuries, and swiftly drains his glass to cover his discomfort while he casts around for some suitable small talk. _Paging Mister Smooth - you’re up, buddy ..._

“Tell me somethin’.” he muses; “who chose your name? When you rezzed the first time? It ain't exactly a girl's name.”.

Her eyes gleam with something that might be amusement.

"I'm not exactly a girl.".

"You're a girl to me." As soon as the words are out he wonders if he's just made a huge mistake - but she smiles. 

"Call it however you see it; I don't mind either way.".

"So ... why that name? why not pick somethin' neutral?".

She looks thoughtful, and he wonders if she's going to make up an interesting lie - it’s what he would do, after all. 

“Do you know what it means?”, she finally asks. He’s confused; is there some hidden significance to the name? He can’t think of anything, and shakes his head. 

She goes on; “To sully; it means … to defile, to tarnish, to make impure.” 

She halts for a moment, a distant expression crossing her face, recalling the day she was resurrected for the first time. It doesn’t look like an entirely happy memory, and he wonders just how bad her awakening was; during the recent conflicts many guardians found themselves brought back in the middle of active war zones, and that sort of thing tends to leave invisible scars. She doesn’t seem traumatised though, maybe just a little preoccupied as she revisits the memory. She tilts her glass one way then the other, watching the amber liquid swirl as she chooses her words.

“I wasn’t in the best of moods when my ghost found me, and I definitely wasn’t up for being cast as some pure-of-heart saviour. Picking a name with a dual meaning just … made me smile. Still does.” A corner of her mouth quirks. "Call it my teenage rebellion phase.”.

He can’t hold back his laughter at that. “You a rebel, hero? You coulda just walked in the opposite direction. S’what I did.” 

She grins. “I bet you did. And yet …” she spreads her hands to indicate him and the scene behind him in the view screen; “... here you are, still holding on, sleeping under the Traveller like the rest of us.” 

The astute observation stops his laugh in its tracks, and he frowns down at his empty glass. Possible answers swirl up up in his mind - that’s not how it is, it’s different for him, there’s more to it - but thinks better of it; he doesn’t want to waste their stolen time together with arguments. At the back of his mind is the growing understanding that if it stops being fun, she’ll stop showing up … and he can’t have that. Instead he stands up and waves in the direction of the crawlspace hatch. 

“Now that reminds me - come’n see this.”.

She fixes him with an amused stare; “I’ve seen it, remember?”.

“That was before.”, he urges, “Come see how it is now.”

She slowly unfolds herself from the chair, joining him at the hatch as he waves her through with a flourish. There’s a second of stillness as she takes in his handiwork - the thick cushions lining the whole space and heaped up around the walls, the heavy fabrics - and then that filthy laugh rips through her. 

“Oh my god. You made me a pillow fort.”. The delight is plain in her face, pure joy bubbling up as she scans the room. 

“It’s good, then?”; he can’t resist checking. 

She shakes her head slowly in wonder. “Is it good …? I think you just discovered the way to my heart.”.

He can’t disguise his glee. “That’s all it takes to win you over? A little comfort?”. 

“Nope. _Whimsy_.”. The way she says it makes it sound like an unspeakable perversion; with a flick of her eyebrows and a conspiratorial grin. "Gets me every time.”; and she grabs his shirt and pulls him towards the cushion pile, falling back into the heap and taking him down with her. He doesn’t protest.

* * *

It’s somewhere in the small hours; they’re curled up in the cushion nest, tangled together skin-to-skin, deliciously exhausted. Her fingertips trace slow, lazy circles on his flank, not to excite but to soothe, and he’s about ready to melt from the touch; hovering right on the edge of sleep and trying not to think about the inevitable moment when she announces she has somewhere else to be. She can just stay right where she is indefinitely, as far as he’s concerned; this is fine, more than fine, this feels _right_ somehow - despite the ever-present twanging of his paranoia. Whatever she is, whatever she means by him, he actually feels safe enough to relax. It’s been far too long since he could say that with another person this near. 

He hums contentedly and tightens his arm around her shoulder, pulling her a little closer so he can breathe her in. At her drowsy protest he smiles and murmurs; “… you gonna stay over?”.

She goes still. “I can’t.”.

Now she’s tense, fighting off the pleasant languor and regretfully disentangling her limbs from his. He curses himself for ruining the mood. Clutching at her hand as it leaves his skin, he raises himself up on one arm and searches her face. 

“You expected back? Someone waitin' up?”.

He wants it to be that. It would be okay if it were that. But it isn’t; she shakes her head, avoiding his gaze. 

“No. But I can’t stay. It’s not something I do.”.

_Fuck. Well, at least she’s honest_. He’s pushed his luck too far - staying the night evidently feels too much like attachment, and she’s not here for that. Should've kept his mouth shut, likely she'd have just dozed off next to him, and he’d have had a few more hours of … whatever this is. Intimacy. Affection, even - but the moment’s vanished beyond recovery. She rises, gets dressed, and leaves without another word; and he stares blankly at the metal struts above him until sleep claims him.


	11. Trophies and Souvenirs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The relationship is developing, but Drifter still isn't sure where he stands. Or rather he is ... and he doesn't like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little more plot and a little more smut. Also I promise you the rookie has a name, and he gets to be a proper part of the story soon.

Pillow forts are an awesome invention, he decides when he finally wakes. Aside from a faint pang when he remembers why she’s not next to him this time around, he floats to consciousness in easy stages, luxuriating in the unaccustomed comfort. No wonder her clan likes it. As a rule he keeps his living space deliberately sparse, not wanting to get a taste for easy living that’ll make the dark times ahead even harder to bear, but a few cushions won’t hurt for a little while. And maybe she’ll relax enough to stay over next time. He smiles to himself as he runs through possible inducements - hell, he could offer to cook her breakfast, even. He wonders idly what she likes to eat, and how he might find out.

But before he can put that plan into effect she’s already out of reach; out of the Tower and away running errands and patrols around the Reef - deliberately removing herself, he suspects, as none of this was on the roster. She must have volunteered to take some extra duty. He knows the signs; she’s creating distance, for whatever reason … and while one half of his brain is shouting at him to back off and stop pushing, the other is calculating angles of approach so he can get near her again without activating her defences. 

Pushy wins the day; he takes a chance on her uncertain schedule and deliberately arranges a run of Gambit fixtures on both the Shore and the Reef, hoping that’ll look like a happy coincidence. With a bit of luck the lure of the game will draw her, but if nothing else it brings him back into her orbit, able to bump into her as if by accident. He’s already imagining the scenario, _fancy meetin' you here_, catching her eye across a crowded bar or similar. He wonders if she’ll be fooled … he’s beginning to doubt his ability to get one over on her like that, but manipulation is as natural to him as breathing after all these years of survival. 

He doesn’t even consider that he might just ask her. A straight question might get a straight answer, and that answer might be ’No’. He’s not risking it.

* * *

He hates visiting Spider; the self-styled ’Shore’s only law’ crime baron - because that’s what he is, no matter how he likes to paint himself as an honest businessman - delights in the throneroom style of his hideout, forcing people to stand while he looks down on them from that ridiculous raised chair. And the discomfort and resentment of his visitors only adds to his delight. _Bastard_. 

Spider shifts forward in his suspended throne, peering down as if his visitor is almost too small to register, and unfolds a claw gracefully in mock-surprise.

“Back so soon, my friend? Sad to see a man of your stature running his own errands. I must admit I’ve developed a certain … _fondness_… for your delivery boy. I imagine he’s good at, shall we say, _taking orders_.”. 

Drifter rolls his eyes at the jibe; the emphasis isn’t subtle. Spider thinks their partnership is a romantic pairing, and he’s trying to elicit a jealous reaction. It’s a fair assumption to leap to, the kid’s young, good-looking, strong and fit like all guardians - a prime specimen whichever way you swing. The Fallen might even be serious about wanting to try him out. He’ll have to drop a word of warning in the kid's ear. 

“If yer feelin’ lucky, go ahead - try givin' him orders. See how that goes for ya. Anyway, I ain’t here to talk about him. What’s this I hear about Scorn tech sittin' around with nobody makin’ use of it? Seems like a waste to me.”.

Spider grunts, disappointed at his failure to get a rise out of his guest.

"I thought you’d looted my humble home of everything you could carry away already. Tell me, why should I look away while you strip yet more of my people’s assets?”. 

_Ah. Time for negotiation._ Drifter smiles faintly at the shift to business mode, and ticks off on his fingers.

“One - you can’t use it. Two - I _can_ use it. Three - if I can use it to turn a profit, you get a bigger cut. You feelin’ ok, old friend? I never knew you not ta pick up on the smell of free money.”.

Spider chuckles at that. This isn’t friendship, not by a long way, but it’s also far from emnity. More like watchful coexistence, trading favours where they can. They go back a long way, a _very_ long way, with no double-crosses in their history; and that’s a rare enough thing that both of them take care to maintain the status quo.

“Very well. My associate here can furnish you with a list. Do take care where you step, won’t you - I understand my guardian is considerably more adept at creating Scorn corpses than they are at clearing them away when they’re done.”.

Drifter notes the possessive tone, and that sparks his interest. “Oh, you got yourself a pet guardian now? They take orders nicely?”. He throws Spider’s jibe back at him with a dirty grin.

“Alas, no." Spider rumbles ruefully. "I am, how do your people say, ’not their type’.” 

He sounds disappointed but respectful, a most unusual tone coming from the most ruthless criminal in town - _well how ‘bout that, he must've asked and got knocked back_. This guardian must have balls of steel, to turn down the Spider like that and keep coming back, as well as being incurably honest. 

He’s halfway to the door, list in hand, before his brain catches up. _You idiot, it’s her. Who else d'you know fits that description?_ He keeps walking. If the Spider wanted to find a chink in his armour, bringing her up in conversation will be the quickest way to present him with one. But if she’s the one clearing those hideouts, that means she’s around.

* * *

Between fixtures, he spends a day patiently exploring each lead and recovering anything that looks useful. All in all it turns into a productive trip, netting him a couple of crates of assorted hydraulic assemblies and control switching, and on any other day he’d be satisfied with that. But not today. The boost to his inventory is useful but incidental. He thought for sure he’d catch sight of her at least once, maybe on patrol or even in that little bar in Thieves Landing, seeing as she seemed to be so well known there; but he finds himself returning to the Derelict alone.

He scowls as he packs the spares into storage on the Derelict; only one more night here and then he’s due to head back to the EDZ. There’s been no sign of her name on the roster for any of the matches, and though he hears her mentioned in passing gossip he always seems to have just missed her. She couldn’t ghost him more efficiently if she tried … the scowl deepens as he tries to work out if that’s what’s actually happening here, or just his paranoia at work again.

_No time for attachments, huh_; he sneers silently at himself, lashing down the last storage container with a little more force than strictly necessary.

By the time he gets back to the Tower he’s talked himself into a black mood, swinging between despair and anger. Somehow this guardian has become the one thing he needs above all to be sure of, and the more he grasps for certainty the more she slips through his fingers. There’s no way he can command her skills on his crew if he’s pining after capturing her affection - and she clearly doesn't feel the same way about him, she can’t, not with the way she's setting him at a distance. 

Best course of action is to end it now, make a clean break and move on. He rehearses his logic in his head until he’s satisfied with the flow of it, and waits bleakly for her to make contact so he can say his piece. _It’s been fun, but it’s over. It has to be_. 

* * *

His conviction is strengthened when she finally shows up in the basement the next day, camouflaged by a larger group surging noisily in though the doorway en masse. He nearly misses her in all the bustle. The rookie's working crowd control, directing anyone without immediate business off to the side to make space for the queue; she settles herself in the near corner by the tunnel without complaint, leaning casually against the wall while she waits for her friends to do whatever they came in to do. As Drifter turns to deal with the next piece of business she’s directly in his line of sight. It’s as if she’d materialised out of nowhere ... he halts for a second to be sure he’s not seeing things. 

If he was hoping for some tender moment, he’s disappointed; her gaze passes over him like he’s invisible. His brows snap together at the apparent slight, and he turns away abruptly to fiddle with something on the bench beside him while he suppresses his frustration. He can’t work out how she can be so cool with him - he’s had her in the palm of his hand, begging for release at his touch, pleading for more; and mere days later she can blank him as if he’s a stranger in the street. It’s unbearable - and he has to get over it.

Collecting himself with an effort, he turns back to the queueing guardians and starts handling them, working through the team submissions and bounty trading until the rush dies down. The mood in the room quickly turns subdued as guardians register his unsmiling face and distracted answers, the disappearance of his signature charm making them wary. it's a bad idea to piss off the Drifter, even if no-one can put their finger on exactly why that is. 

Hushed conversations in the tunnel outside reach a consensus of sympathy for whatever unlucky bastard is the target of his anger, and a sincere desire to be well out of splash range when retribution strikes. They don’t realise he can hear every word - the structure of the tunnel is riddled with strategically-placed airbricks and power ducts that transmit sound back into the basement, one of his reasons for choosing this space in the first place - but he lets it slide. It doesn’t hurt to have a reputation as a bad person to cross. He pointedly turns his back on the remaining stragglers, deliberately not looking for her, and leans on the railing to stare into the bank while the rookie picks up dealing with the final queries - good, one less job for him to do. He’s done with human interaction for now.

Lost in thought, he doesn’t register the footsteps behind him until something is placed on the bench just beyond his peripheral vision. He starts, whipping round to assess the threat just in time to see her walking away; and there's a small bottle of something that wasn’t there before, placed carefully next to the dish of jade coins. 

He steps over to examine the unexpected object, and laughs silently in disbelief; it’s aged cider brandy, a connoisseur’s wet dream, and Traveller only knows how she got her hands on it. The sloshing contents hug the sides of the bottle seductively as he holds it up to the light. _Cute. She brought me a present_. He wonders what the hell to do with this information; how he’s supposed to feel. Is it supposed to be some sort of apology, a peace offering? A message? Does this mean they’re okay after all? Anger and despair are briefly replaced by resentment; why won't she just say what’s what? But softening the edges of his black mood there’s also warmth spreading through him at the gesture; relief beginning to temper the negative emotions.

He places the bottle hastily out of sight as the rookie turns back with some comment, and forces himself to focus on what needs doing next. 

* * *

Arriving back at the Derelict at day’s end, he pulls out the gift and examines it again. This is rainy day, special occasion stuff, something to treasure … you don’t drop something like that on someone you’re not that into. Personally if he’d come across it by chance somewhere he’d never even have considered giving it away. Frowning in thought, he stashes the gift in one of the cabinets in the bomb shelter, figuring he’ll get to it sometime when he can appreciate it properly. When she’s with him, for preference, so they can enjoy it together.

It dawns on him - she’s made an overture, now he has to respond. If he wants to see her, that is … and by damn he does want to. He’s getting hard just thinking about it. He hastens back to the bridge and calls up his ghost to open a channel to her; private and secured, nothing to say that he wants anyone else to know about. He waits tensely for the connection to be accepted. At last there’s a faint rustle and her ghost’s voice comes through.

“Hi Drifter - go ahead.”.

He grins. “Hey hero … how’ve ya been?”. 

Her voice comes through now, casual and relaxed. “Busy. You?”. 

It’s a far cry from the usual terse electronic communications, and he feels the knots in his shoulders finally unravel with the intimacy of it. Suddenly it feels safe to be honest. 

“Lonely.” he says, plaintively. He hears a faint chuckle and doubles down, encouraged. “Been dreamin’ about ya.”.

“Oh?”. 

That sounds promising. “Yeah. Good dreams - except the part where I wake up and you ain’t there.”.

No response, but he can almost hear her smile. He closes his eyes and concentrates on his tone; smooth, dark and sweet, pure molasses.

“It’s a cruel thing, to leave a man hangin’ like this …” he croons. “Wakin' up alone, so hard for you … if I turned over too fast I swear I’d drill a hole in the Derelict’s side.”.

She hums quietly, that same sound he loves to hear when she's stretched out on his bed and he’s touching her just right. The mental image is delicious - and if he’s not mistaken, he can hear fabric rustling, sliding down over skin. No, he’s not mistaken - there’s a faint moan, cut off as if she’s biting her lip. _Fuck_. 

“Whoa, now - you doin’ what I think you’re doin’?”.

He swears he can actually hear the grin now, that devilish mischief crossing her face. “Maybe. Keep talking.”, she breathes, and he swears quietly as his hand fumbles with his zipper. In his mind’s eye he can see her stretched out in some tiny jump ship berth, her hand disappearing into the front of her pants, working faster and faster … he groans in frustration. 

“Silver girl, you are somethin’ else ... come see me.”. His voice trembles as he gets a firm grip on his cock. “Got somethin’ here for ya.”.

There’s silence apart from her unsteady breathing; he's starting to think he’ll have to finish himself off alone - then she chuckles and the line goes dead. He holds his breath, still stroking himself, and grins triumphantly when the transmat dings a few seconds later. He slams the authorisation and crosses swiftly to the hatch, catching her as she comes through and shoving her up against the wall for a bruising kiss. Her hands tangle in his hair as she returns it with interest. 

“See what happens when you leave me alone too long?” he murmurs shakily as he comes up for air. “Look at me, I’m a desperate man …”. 

He doesn’t wait for a response, carrying her to the bed and falling down on the cushions with her still wrapped around him. Her clothing is dishevelled, pants undone and partly refastened in haste with buttons and holes mismatching; and he smirks as he slides his hand inside to tease her. _Oh fuck she’s so wet _... he groans at the feel of it, gathering her slick up and circling her clit with slippery fingers. 

“You miss me as much as I missed you …?” he smirks against her cheek, nuzzling the soft skin; her only answer is a hum of satisfaction, angling her hips against his hand for more contact. _That’ll do_. He seeks out the spot he’s discovered on her collarbone, the one where if he kisses it just _so_ makes her clutch at him and sigh greedily; pulling her shirt aside to uncover the pale skin, sucking on it and grazing it with his teeth - right there, _oh yeah, that’s it _… it has the desired effect; she arches against him again, pulling his hair gently. “_Fuck_ I missed you …” he grinds out, kissing a path along her neck and up under her ear, dragging more breathless encouragement from her. He has no more conversation than that, only his urgent need now expressed with hands and lips.

They can’t undress fast enough; with each garment that comes off they come back together for clashing kisses and hungry touches, tumbling and turning, clutching at layers and struggling with fastenings until they finally fall together skin to skin, wrapped around each other. And at last he’s deep inside her, at last he’s moving in her and wrapped in her and surrounded by her, _at last _... the black mood is dispersed, not even a memory. There’s just her. _This is it, fuck yes, right here, this is right_. 

She tenses around him, stroking his skin and begging him to go faster, deeper, bringing her quickly to an intense peak; he slows to ride her through it, relishing her whispered curses against his ear. Then he’s picking up speed again, unable to wait, desperately chasing his own release and spilling over with a strangled shout. Everything about this moment is sheer bliss; nestling into her, her fingertips tousling his hair, the matched rhythm of their breathing as they both come down. _This is right_.

After a minute or two she speaks quietly into the silence. “Maybe I’ll leave you hanging more often. That was amazing.”. He huffs an exhausted laugh against her neck and leans up on one elbow to look at her teasing grin. She laughs outright at his mock-frown of disapproval. “Or you could just, you know, call me when you’re in the mood …?”. 

He ducks his head in laughing defeat and rolls off to lie beside her. “I guess I could, at that.”.

* * *

It’s somewhere in the small hours; he’s propped up on the cushions with her sprawled back against his chest as he traces circles on her bare shoulder with his calloused fingertips. He’s utterly relaxed, utterly content for the moment, unwilling to move. They’ve spent some hours exploring each other, making up for lost time; and he’s fighting off sleep, putting off the moment he knows she’ll seize to disappear. He wishes she’d stay, just once; they’re so comfortable together … he still doesn’t fully understand her reluctance to take it further. 

He breathes in deeply and settles back further into the cushions; the movement makes his jade pendant swing slightly on its cord, and her hand comes up to bring it to rest. He squints down as she traces the carving with her fingertips, following the path of the twin snakes eternally swallowing their own tails. He smirks. 

“Lotta folk'd like to get their hands on that, y’know.”.

“I heard. A hundred glimmer to the first person to get it, as proof they’ve had you.”.

He scoffs at that. “A hundred? That all I’m worth? I’m offended.”. That draws an indulgent chuckle from her, and he looks down. “You ain’t tempted to grab yerself a trophy? Easy money …”. 

She gently presses the pendant flat against his skin. Pensively; “Too easy. People think so small.”. 

He’s intrigued; “What, you plannin' to hijack the Derelict?”. 

She turns around slowly, straddling him and looking him in the eye. “Still too small. This,” and she touches the pendant, “this is just a _thing_. A pretty thing, but … just a thing. I could take it, you could take it back and that would be that.”. She pauses, a wicked glint in her eye now. “And I could take the Derelict, if I put my mind to it, but that’s just a thing too. A much bigger thing, but still …”. 

He’s amused, by her confidence as much as anything; where is she going with this?

“So … what’s your idea of a trophy?”.

She doesn’t answer; instead she kisses him deeply, tracing her hands down his chest and up again. He leans into it, feeling himself hardening against her, and hums appreciation as she scratches lightly down his biceps. When she pulls away he frowns briefly, but smiles again as she shifts her weight and takes his cock in one hand, bracing herself with the other against his chest as she slowly pumps him up and down and teases the head with her thumb. He tenses his legs, bracing against the bed to keep from trembling, and grips her thighs.

His fingers dig in as she moves her other hand to cup his balls, stroking and squeezing gently. He fights to stay silent, but he can’t hold back a breathless groan when her hand moves down further and she teases his rim with a fingertip, keeping up the slow strokes on his cock as she does. He swears softly, “Fuck…” and jerks his hips up in mute demand. _More, please_. She grins and removes both her hands, straddling him fully now and sliding down on his length with a sigh. 

He wraps her in his arms and buries his face in her neck, nipping the tender skin as she rides him, building speed until he’s gasping. He’s so close to coming … she stills and lifts his head, looking him full in the eyes and taking a shaky breath, She’s close too ... she starts up again, slower, deep thrusts that make her eyes roll back with bliss, and he swears again at the sight. “_Damn_ ...”. 

She gradually picks up pace again, and he’s speechless; all that comes out is a hiss as she bounces on him, leaning back and gripping his shoulders. The tension builds until he clutches at her, driving up into her and spilling over with a drawn-out groan. He can feel her shuddering with her own orgasm, her nails digging into his arms as she goes rigid. He gathers her in when she goes limp against him and holds her for a long while against his chest. Eventually she moves slightly to look at him.

“There. That’s my trophy.” she murmurs. “You may find someone else who can get you to make that noise …” and she grins smugly at him, “although I doubt they’ll be cheap …” he barks a laugh at that; “but no-one can take it back from me.”.

He nods weakly, conceding the point. “You got the right idea. How many trophies you lookin’ to collect?”.

* * *

She’s gone by morning; the pendant slides across his chest when he sits up, and he smirks as his hand goes to the cool jade. 


	12. Leading Strings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Vanguard mission leads to some surprises for Sully's clanmates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leading strings, for anyone who hasn't come across the phrase before, is the archaic version of toddler reins. This chapter aims to introduce some more background on our mysterious hero and their other friendships. Drifter gets a look in too though, don't worry.

It’s quiet in Ikora’s study; you could almost believe you’d stepped out of the city through some portal, so muted is the background noise from the Tower’s normal activity just a few feet away. The guardian takes a moment, not for the first time, to appreciate the skill involved in arranging the room’s furnishings to create the effect. 

They’re facing each other on two high-backed chairs, comfortably upholstered in a rich embroidered fabric evoking the patterns on the tiles in the alley above. The colours are more muted though, faded reds and browns against a cream background, echoing the earthenware and copper ornaments here and there. Heavy fabric hangings cover the walls, subtle squares and dip-dyes inviting the viewer to look within and meditate rather than spectate. A breeze ambles through the half-open door leading back to another space, one the guardian hasn’t yet been invited to, and they deduce that the shutters have been opened back there to allow the air flow rather than disrupt the calm in here. 

Both lightbearers sit easily, apparently relaxed, but it’s clear there’s something on Ikora’s mind; ostensibly this conversation is a pre-briefing briefing, but what that really means is Ikora wants to discuss something in private. The guardian keeps their body language open, inviting the warlock vanguard to unburden herself in her own time. Eventually she speaks.

“They tell me the Drifter has heard your voice.”.

_They_ being the Hidden, of course. The titan knows they're watched, it’s all part of the game they play on an almost daily basis with the Tower’s authorities, manoeuvring within the lines laid down for them while avoiding coming wholly under the Vanguard's control. They tilt their head now, waiting for Ikora to ask a direct question - also part of the game, as the warlock is well aware. Any question, suggestion, open-ended statement or hint will be met with polite silence at best, creative misunderstanding at worst. They don’t have to wait long.

“Is this true?”. 

They smile slightly, and the ghost speaks for them; “He has. It was an accident.” Then, in his own tone, he adds “ … the first time, anyway.”. At Sully’s frown, he swivels sternly. “What? We _don’t_ lie to Ikora, you told me that was Rule One.”. They hold up a hand to signal acquiescence, and look back at the woman across from them. Ikora is silent for a long moment, and when she speaks again it seems to be coming from a distance, pulled from her almost unwillingly. 

“I was the first to hear you - your true voice - when you arrived here. I took it as … a sign of trust, from one who doesn’t trust easily. Perhaps I’m foolish. I felt that maybe I had earned your good opinion.”. She tails off and raises her eyes to Sully's face. “Was I wrong?”. 

Sully shifts slightly in their chair, waving the ghost back a little so they can speak for themselves. 

“You _were_ the first, by my choice. And you were not wrong about the reasons.”. 

“So if you use your voice around him - do you trust him?”.

“Too early to say.”.

“But you foresee a use for him?”. 

Their face is carefully blank as they consider the implications. The eagerness of Ikora's question suggests she’s looking for a control angle on the Drifter … and she’s willing to use whatever she can to achieve it.

"My friendships are off-limits to your spies. Even this one.”. Sully’s tone is as cold as their expression now, and Ikora hesitates.

“The Vanguard needs your support - for the good of the city. We need you to to stay focused.”. It’s almost a plea, and she winces internally at how much she sounds like Zavala right now, pontificating about the greater good. In any case it’s the wrong tone to take with this particular guardian. They stare her down.

“No. The Vanguard needs me to be obedient. The Vanguard can consider the likely consequences of trying to force the issue.”. 

It’s not an idle threat, for all that it’s vague; the guardian gives everything they’re asked for when the Vanguard calls, but they refuse to be controlled, even by people they care about. _Especially_ by people they care about. Ikora sits back and stretches her tense hands, recalling the last time somebody tried to force Sully to go against their principles. It didn’t end well.

She settles for another plea: “Then at least be careful - for me. He’s dangerous. Devious, manipulative, unscrupulous … he has his own agenda.”.

Unexpectedly that makes Sully smile. 

“Well, and so do you. Does that mean we can’t be friends?”. 

Ikora has no answer to that, so she lets the subject drop - not a moment too soon, as Zavala chooses that moment to arrive with his intelligence officer for the planned briefing. He's uncomfortable around the silent guardian, everyone in the room knows, but he makes the best of it when they address him only through the ghost. As long as they get results he’s willing to bear with their little quirk, as he privately thinks of it. He has a small stack of mission reports and scout intel for them to review; while they peruse the information he exchanges pleasantries and Tower-related small talk with Ikora until the titan signals they're ready to continue. He leans forward to address them directly. 

“The cover story is that we have a large influx of newly-Risen guardians who have only seen either full combat, or Tower environs. They need some time around more experienced personnel, running simple patrol duty, to adjust to the full realisation of what it means to serve as a guardian.” He breaks off for a second, allows himself a rare smirk, and adds “ … it has the virtue of being true.”. The titan acknowledges the neatness of the setup with an answering gleam in their eye, and gestures him to continue. 

“We require you and your Fireteam to escort the new guardians for a time, perhaps some weeks, through standard missions in the EDZ. Show them around, make sure they know who their friends are in the region. While you are doing this, if you should happen to pass close to the area mentioned in those reports … “ he indicates the stack of datapads on the table, “ … and discover if there’s any truth in the rumours of a non-aggressive Fallen settlement - well, that would be a most interesting bonus for the Tower’s intelligence team.”. 

The titan nods thoughtfully, accepting the mission, and their ghost reappears to ask a few clarifying questions about potential issues; then they're departing, polite but silent, to make their preparations. 

* * *

Drifter hears she's been summoned to a high-priority Vanguard conclave, and in short order she's out of the Tower and away on some mission or other. Word is it might be weeks before she's back, and he swallows his frustration and turns back to other tasks. Not like he doesn’t have more pressing things to take care of.

Half the clan seems to be missing as well, as he manages to piece together from the absence of the usual faces in Gambit and the much-reduced tally of bodies at the bar one night when he drops by. He invites himself to their table, waving a fresh bottle and a pack of cards, and they shuffle up to make a space for him. Nobody mentions his relationship with the titan, though her name comes up more than once; he braces himself for knowing glances, maybe even some sniggers, but they don’t arise. Presumably she hasn't shared what they’ve got going on, it being nobody else’s business but theirs … he appreciates the discretion. 

He’s dealt a round of cards before anyone realises they’d agreed to play, and they’re picking up their cards before anyone thinks to ask what the game is. And while they’re busy sorting out their hands and their wits, he’s patiently turning the conversation around to what he wants to hear about, dropping deft comments here and there to put everyone at ease. 

As the game progresses, bits and pieces of information drop and he can piece together more of the story. The titan and her usual fireteam - which it turns out is Maas and Dina - have taken a party of newly-Risen kinderguardians out on their first patrols; could be gone a month or more, camping out in the EDZ, learning the territory, checking in with the ex-militia scouts and cleaning out hostile Fallen nests. There are also rumours of a neutral Fallen base, hastily shushed, that just maybe she's going to investigate. He files that away; it makes sense, what he’s seen of her command of the language suggests she’s also familiar with Fallen culture. She’d be the ideal pick.

The subject has been pointedly changed by now so he can’t follow up to ask how that came about; he steers the conversation instead to talk about how everyone met and joined the clan; hoping to glean some intel that way. He doesn’t get much, beyond what he expected to hear. They all regard the titan as a hero, express awe and gratitude that they’re in the same clan, tell stories about how they’ve fought together. He smiles indulgently.

“Y’know, I’ve never see 'em fight outside of Gambit. They punch everythin' to death out in the wilds too? They took down a servitor once, never seen anythin’ like it.”. He chuckles, shaking his head and taking a drink. As he sits back he realises the group has gone deadly quiet, glancing awkwardly at each other and shuffling their feet.

“What’d I say?”, he asks.

Sitting next to him, Arno-15 finally finds words. “You know they’re only having fun in Gambit, right? Out there, in real combat … they’re terrifying. Most efficient killing machine I ever hid behind. When they get angry … it’s cold, man. I don’t ever want to be on the wrong side of that.”.

There’s a subdued chorus of agreement, but nobody elaborates. Coming from Carnage himself, that’s a fascinating assessment - his opinion of her combat skills, already high, goes up another notch. _I gotta get her on my crew somehow_. He changes the subject quickly to something more innocuous, a seemingly chance comment about a crate of antique weapon parts he picked up for almost nothing the day before in the bazaar, and the group gratefully follows his lead. One more titbit falls his way before they all part; “You should show that to Sully, when they’re back. They love fixing up old crap like that.”. 

_Finally. A lever_.

* * *

The rookie has noticed something’s up; “Nice to see _you_ have time for socialising.”, he observes sourly when Drifter rolls into the basement direct from the bar. He grimaces and waves a dismissive hand. 

“I’m gatherin' intel, kid. Someone I want on the crew, and they ain’t easy to get close to. Gotta prepare the ground just right.”.

That seems to do it; the kid shrugs fair-enough and drops the subject. Drifter wonders how much he should tell him, if anything, and decides it can wait until he’s sure of the titan’s support. _Heh. Maybe never, then_.

* * *

Early morning, Trostland outskirts; the kinderguardians have been dropped off after a hasty briefing with Zavala, and Echo Three are waiting for them. Maas steps forward and gives the order to line up for inspection. As he goes along the line he gets each guardian’s name, class and light choice; Sully and Dina make mental notes to themselves as he goes, assessing the role each one will be assigned once they start patrolling. Finally he comes to the end of the line and stands back to look at the whole group. There are fourteen in all, a mix of classes and races, with the only common factor being their recent resurrection. They’ve all been through traumatic awakenings, compounded by most of them being shoved straight into combat; and they all look grimly determined, anxious to please. He comes to the last part of the orientation. 

“My name is Maas. I lead Fireteam Echo Three, and while we are in the field I am in charge; you do as I say. Understood?”. 

There’s a ripple of hasty nods going down the line, like a subdued Mexican wave. He waves at the other two; “This is Dina. Watch what she does and do as she says. Clear?”. Another ripple. Finally he gestures at the titan. 

“And this is Sully. Sully don’t speak, except when they do. And if they do, do as they say or else because it’ll be important. Got it?”. Emphatic nods from the whole line; several of them peek at the hero nervously. Their reputation has reached this far, it seems. 

There’s a hesitant hand raised somewhere in the middle of the line. 

“Yes?”.

It’s an exo male, dressed in formal dark red warlock robes. “What happens if you disagree and tell us to do different things?”.

_Ah, this one’s trouble. Good_. Perfect opportunity to define the command structure. He opens his mouth to say something pretty damn smart and authoritative - and halts as a sudden nervous snigger runs along the assembled line. He looks around and finds Sully and Dina shaking fists at each other, _one-two-three_ then breaking into rock/paper/scissors. Dina wins with rock and laughs villainously; Sully dolefully lowers their scissors. The kinderguardians laugh outright while Maas folds his arms and stares mock-sternly at his fireteam. As he turns back the group instantly hushes, not sure if they’re in trouble or not. _My god, they really are just babies_. He allows a faint smile to soften his face. 

“Okay kids, that’s how we handle disagreements. We’ll try not to give you conflicting orders, but if there’s no time to confer then I expect you to follow whoever you think is making the most sense given the information you have. You’re _guardians_, not redjacks, and we’re only here to look after you while you learn to think for yourselves. Understood?”. 

There’s a confident chorus of “Yes, sir!”, and he gives the signal to break line and move out. As the group scrambles to pick up their gear he turns back to his smirking team. “I bet you think you’re funny, don'cha.” They both grin broadly and turn away to their assigned positions in the column.

* * *

The first few days consist of simple, relaxed exercises. How to get muddy, to cover up all that gleaming new Tower-issue gear that makes a guardian stand out from half a mile away. How to save the waxed paper wrappers off the ration bars - ‘rat bars’ to the old hands - and save them for firelighters. How to spot scout shelters, and blag a cup of tea from Devrim if he’s in a good mood. As it turns out, not coincidentally, Sully has liberated a precious packet of Earl Grey from who-knows-where and slides it out of a compartment of her armour with a carefully blank face. _Ask me no questions_, that deadpan expression says, _and I’ll tell you no lies_. The gift disappears swiftly into Devrim’s pack, and something more everyday is offered to the group. 

There are a few patrols to do, and Maas uses this to teach the group the hand signals they’ll need in the field; a set common across all Tower-trained personnel, and a few that are Echo Three exclusive. Some of the kinderguardians also start picking up sign language as they observe how Sully communicates with Dina and Maas, and tentatively test their understanding with leading questions around the small camp fire in the evenings. 

Three days in they’re growing into a coherent group, and gaining confidence as individuals. At this point they're assigned night watches with one of the fireteam allocated to support them and look out for teaching opportunities in the dark; Sully ends up paired with a young woman who’s taken the name Raven. Her shining blue-black hair, falling dead-straight to just above her jaw, makes the choice a good one; that paired with her wide cheekbones and the dark hazel eyes under heavy straight lids suggest native North American ancestry, once upon a time. Maas grins to himself as he reads out the roster, catching Sully’s eye as he gets to her - he’s well aware of her penchant for intelligent, petite dark-haired women just like this youngster. She tips him a casual salute, paired with a wink that nobody else catches. She doesn’t make any moves on the girl during their watches, however; plenty of time to see how the friendship develops, if it does at all. They spend the dark hours in companionable silence apart from occasional hushed communications via ghosts, passing on useful tips and identification of the sounds around them.

* * *

In the second week the group comes within sight of the point where they’ll start to circle back. It's bare country now, meadow sloping upwards to heath then to moor, with thick tussock grass covering uneven ground. Rock outcrops start to appear, tors and occasional cairns, marking something important to somebody once upon a time. There are caves in this area but no lost sector markings, Devrim’s scouts having left the area alone of late for reasons unspecified; but there are other small signs scratched on flat stones here and there. Maas studies one set for a moment, trying to make sense of it - it looks like it should mean something, but he’s at a loss.

“Sully - does this mean anything to you?”.

She comes over and traces the marks carefully, her ghost hovering and recording the strokes her fingers make. With a cautious glance behind her to make sure she can only be heard by Maas, she nods. “It’s a territorial boundary marker.” she murmurs. "There’s an Eliksni house nearby, and this is a waypoint. If you’re not part of the House then you have to stop here and wait to be met.”.

Maas frowns as he considers the implications; this place wasn’t on his mission briefing, which means either the Vanguard are unaware or they don’t consider it a problem. Just as he’s forming a plan to send a smaller group in to reconnoitre, one of the guardians in the column sharply raises his rifle, coming to full alert and training his sights on something in the long grass fifty or so yards away. The rest of the group follow suit. 

“Dreg!”, murmurs the hunter, “small one by the look of it. Just standing still watching us.” He takes deliberate aim. 

“Hold your fire!”, a voice barks. The group is startled by the unfamiliar voice - who’s speaking? Is it one of them? And then Sully is pushing forward, shoving guns down to point at the ground, snarling. “Nobody fire, or I swear I will make you eat your own gun piece by piece. _Do as I say_.”. 

There’s absolute authority in her voice, and even without Maas’s almost-forgotten caution at the beginning of the expedition everyone moves instantly to obey. The confusion grows as the titan strips off her chest piece and gauntlets, revealing the simple sleeveless top she wears underneath. She drops them in a pile, followed by her rifle and handgun, then she turns to the group. 

“It’s a child.”, she bites out. “We don’t shoot children.”.

She turn to see if the figure is still there; it is. She goes on; “The only reason he would still be there is if he’s watching the younger ones. They were probably playing out here when we came into sight, and some of them must have got separated. He can’t leave without them. He’s the …” she hesitates; “there’s no Common word.” She says something in Fallen, sounds like ‘esh-akree’ spoken with a mouthful of gravel. “What Maas is you you, he is to the smaller ones.”. 

“Babysitter.”, Maas murmurs with a smirk, and she quirks an acknowledging eyebrow at him. The younger guardians pull faces at the unflattering comparison, but Sully’s already looking away. Her attention is fully on the stock-still figure in the near distance, working out how to manage the situation. Finally she comes to a decision. 

“Everyone stay absolutely still; the little ones are tiny, and you might stand on one accidentally.”

Maas shifts uneasily; “What are you going to do?”, he demands in a low voice. She shrugs and holds up a finger; _watch_. 

She walks slowly forward, taking careful steps, and begins spreading her arms out from her sides. As she gets about halfway to the watching figure she stops and lowers herself to the ground, still slow and deliberate, telegraphing every move before she makes it. She sits for a long while with her arms still outstretched, and the group can hear her speaking in a low tone, repeating the same gentle sounds over and over again. Gradually, the long weeds behind her part, and a tiny six-legged form emerges. It scuttles over, hoisting itself up the titan’s back after a couple of false starts and on to her shoulder. It’s almost endearing. 

She turns her head with a slight smile to greet the newcomer. A few more minutes pass and there are three more little ones following their fellow to take up residence on her arms. Their little claws are needle-sharp and the scratches they inflict are starting to bleed, but she doesn’t flinch or attempt to dislodge them. The watcher seems to have relaxed his stance now; is this all of them? Sully stands up exquisitely slowly, so as not to dislodge her tiny passengers, and starts towards him. 

She looks to be offering to hand the hatchlings over, while they in turn are delighted with their new friend and are resisting the transfer. Eliksni toddlers are no more cooperative than their human counterparts, it seems. She makes a gesture of defeat, a few more words are exchanged, and then Maas’s ghost appears with a message from hers. 

“They have to go in to get these back to their caregivers. Nobody has to follow if they don’t want to.”. 

Maas and Dina exchange a disbelieving glance; _are they kidding_? Of course everybody wants to, agog to see how this is going to go down - and the titan seems to have effectively made friends already, so how bad can it be? A few grateful Fallen mamas and a cave full of excitable children? They move forward without hesitation, carefully stowing weapons as they go. 

A hundred yards further on there’s another tor, the massive rocks at its base leaning together over a dark gap just wide enough for a man to pass through. The little Dreg waits patiently for the others to come within sight before ducking into the darkness, with Sully following and negotiating the opening carefully so as to keep the hatchlings from getting caught on the sides. The entrance quickly widens out into a dim tunnel with bare rock walls maybe eight feel across and the same high, with the glow of daylight somewhere up ahead. Occasionally they pass a narrow doorway, but there’s no-one else in sight, no sign or sound of habitation other than the Fallen they’ve already seen.

It's a few hundred feet onwards before the tunnel ends abruptly and brings them out into a wide open space; a rough oval ringed with high rock walls peppered with alcoves, all joined by a system of scaffolding lashed here and there to form ladders and walkways. At the very top there’s a circle of sky visible, with colourful awnings roped back to the edge for now, presumably ready to be unfurled if it rains. 

Several stern Vandals bar their way as they come through, relieving them of weapons before allowing them to move a little further into the space. Sully is a few feet ahead and she flashes them urgent hand signals - _cooperate, stay quiet_. This looks like a meeting place, with a semicircle of benches arranged in front of one huge chair - currently occupied by what surely has to be an Archon, given his size. He’s in full armour with mask and breather attached, leaning forward to examine the party as they file in, agitatedly wrapping and unwrapping the long claws of two hands on the spear he’s holding. 

Sully stops as soon as she passes the first empty bench in front of the Archon, stooping into a low bow with her arms held out as wide as they’ll go. One of the hatchlings loses their grip momentarily and ends up dangling upside down, claws digging in, and she hastily shifts to save them from falling before stretching her arm back out. There’s a commotion in the crowd behind the Archon, and two Fallen push to the front, loudly scolding. There’s no mistaking the maternal tone, and the tiny hatchlings obediently release their obliging carrier at last and scoot to their caregivers. 

There’s a moment while everyone on both sides breathes relief, then the Archon addresses the guardian in front of them. Between them the guardians speak no more than a few words of Fallen speech, and all of those basic martial terms, but she seems to have no trouble following what’s being said. An animated conversation quickly ensues, and Dina surreptitiously requests a translation via Sully’s ghost. It starts to come through at last, lagging a sentence or so behind.

The Archon has demanded the guardians explain themselves; Sully has explained they’re taking a creche, hah, of new people around to learn the terrain. The Archon wants to know how a guardian knows how to coax hatchlings from their hiding places, but he’s too off balance to wait for an answer. He goes on: “You are one of the Risen. You have killed many of our finest fighters.”

“Many of your finest have returned the favour.”, she answers, in a tone of deep respect.

“You rise again!” the Archon snarls, with a twitch of his spear in her direction. 

She bows even lower; “The Traveller wills it so. We feel the pain of every death no less.”. That seems to mollify the Archon; he sits back, slightly less tense, and considers. 

“You cannot leave until we are sure you mean this House no harm. You will be held while we judge your intentions.”. The titan nods assent; no point in doing anything else. Then she speaks again, not to the Archon but to one of the almost equally huge captains just behind him. 

“Honoured captain; will you vouch for me?”.

The Fallen she’s addressing regards her for a long moment, then looks at the Archon for permission to respond before taking half a step forward.

“Will you pay the host tribute?”.

The other guardians are nonplussed; what does that mean? some ritual thing? As she inclines her head in agreement they’re startled by a sudden murmur from the assembled crowd; it seems that was unexpected.

No time for explanations; they’re swiftly shepherded into the Captain’s home space. That’s what he meant by ‘host’, it seems, they’ve become his literal responsibility. He’s walking ahead pushing Sully in front of him, one hand on her bare neck with the claws lightly digging in. As they all get inside the space he increases the forward pressure and pushes her against the far wall, catching her as she stumbles slightly and turning her to face him. There’s a ripple of alarm from the other guardians when he grasps her in all four of his massive clawed hands and lifts her up, pressed against the stone so her head is level with his, the spikes on his mask a bare inch from her face. There’s a tense silence, and Maas grabs Dina’s arm in alarm as he sees arc energy begin to crackle at her fingertips - _please let Dina not start a war_, _please let Sully know what they’re doing_...

Sully rolls her eyes, jerks her chin at the rest of the party and says pointedly “Easy, Trix - you're scaring the chickens.”. A beat; then the captain throws back his head and laughs raucously, carefully putting her down. He waves his arms apologetically. 

“I could not resist.” he crows, in perfect Common. “You should have warned your friends about … your _other_ friends.”. 

She grins and swats him away without rancour. “I did tell them they could stay outside.”.


	13. Unexpected Treasures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having stumbled on a Fallen base, the kinderguardian patrol find they have unexpected allies within - thanks to Sully. And the friendship runs deeper than they could have anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Eliksni cultural references in this chapter I've borrowed heavily from themes in the story Tellurian by CanAm77; if you like my story you will love theirs, I guarantee you. Check it out at https://archiveofourown.org/works/18093395.

The captain walks away to the far end of the room, still chuckling, and starts talking to some other Fallen huddled there. Dina jerks her arm away from Maas with an irritated glance and hisses at Sully. “Your _friend _nearly got himself fried - a little warning next time, please?”. 

Sully nods apologetically. “He’s got a wicked sense of humour, sorry - there’s a reason we call him Trix.”.

Now it’s clear that they’re in no danger - that in fact they’ve landed amongst friends, however unlikely the setting - the tension abates slowly and they start to examine their new surroundings. It's a surprisingly neat cave - set high up in the rock face, three levels or so above the meeting space they first came into; the large main room they’re currently in has been carved out using some sort of power cutter by the look of it, creating a level floor and straight walls all the way to the back some twenty feet away. A metal table runs down the centre of this end of the room, with assorted benches and chairs lined up on each long side, and a huge brick oven dominates the far corner. Fabric hangings and a handful of etched metal plaques break up the plainness of the bare stone walls; everything is in muted earthy colours with virtually no unnecessary ornamentation, but it’s obviously a comfortable home space arranged around the needs of a large family. 

A gesture from one of the other Fallen invites them all to be seated, and assorted dishes are silently placed in the centre of the table - clearly the host’s duties include feeding his guests, but with their limited exposure to Fallen hospitality they’re having trouble trying to decide if they can eat what’s in front of them. It’s mostly meat, some of it very much on the rare side, and Sully immediately pulls a bowl closer and starts eating. Maas watches her closely, still trying to make sense of the situation. 

“You never told us you had Fallen friends.”. 

She just grins at him as she finishes her mouthful. “You never asked.”. 

He rolls his eyes at the glib parry. “Okay, fine. It never occurred to me that I’d need to, you know?”.

She smiles as she takes another morsel. “I daresay it didn’t. Aratrikss and I have known each other for years, and we keep in touch when we can. It was a stroke of luck finding him at home this trip.”.

Maas has so many questions about that back story - but then he remembers he’s responsible for the new guardians, and needs to focus on getting them through this and out the other side. 

"So what happens now?”.

Sully sits back and frowns, considering the options. 

“We’ll need to stay here for as long as it takes for the Archon to be satisfied that our intentions are benign, and we need to behave like ambassadors for now. That means no wandering about unattended, no trash-talking our hosts - and _that _means you refer to them as ‘Eliksni' from now on, if you please, not ‘Fallen' - and most importantly …” she gestures at the silent Vandal who laid out the food and is hovering in the background, “ … no disrespecting the Mother of the House. She’s our host’s chosen brood mother - and he can have his pick, believe me - which means her word is law around here.”.

Saying this, she pointedly takes another strip of meat from the shared bowl, and gestures at everyone. 

“Eat something. She’ll be very offended if you don’t, these are the best cuts. They saved them for us.”. As they all silently stare at the dangling strip of raw meat she’s brandishing she rolls her eyes. “For goodness sake, it’s just venison. Best carpaccio you’ll find in the EDZ.”.

Maas takes the lead and obeys, taking a piece and tasting it; frowns across the table at the others to do the same. It’s not nearly as bad as he was thinking, though he generally avoids eating red meat. Pleased with navigating that hurdle, he gathers his courage to ask the burning question, since evidently no-one else is going to. 

“What’s the tribute thing?”. 

“Ah.” She stops eating for a second. “Well now, that’s a question. It varies according to the host’s requirements, and the guest’s inclination. Never anything the guest isn’t willing to provide.”. 

That’s no answer; Maas frowns and opens his mouth to insist on clarification, but she forestalls him with a sigh.

“Look; Aratrikss and I have an understanding, going way back. Between his squishy kink and my, um, _fluid_ sexual preferences, it works very well. Very well indeed …” and for a second her expression turns downright lecherous. “So if the host has that preference and the guest is willing, well … that’s the tribute. Other options include singing, dancing, telling stories, providing for the household by hunting … but here we are.”.

He wants to protest, but he’s prevented by the captain looming up behind him. He rumbles something in Eliksni, an odd mix of authoritative and eager, and Sully rises from the table. 

“I’ll be back.”, she murmurs, eyes alight with mischief. “Don't wait up.”. The captain hastens her, gently but firmly, to the far end of the room, lifting a heavy fabric hanging to reveal the large alcove behind it filled with a massive bed. As they pass through and the hanging falls back Maas and Dina exchange _what-the-fuck_ glances, then collect themselves and work on reassuring the kinderguardians that no, this is not usual for a Vanguard mission and no, they’re not expected to provide tributes as well. 

* * *

As the hanging falls back Aratrikss tangles one clawed hand in Sully's hair and pulls her gently towards him, kneeling down to bring them face to face. “How has my favourite squishy been?” he rumbles affectionately, bringing his other hands into play to unbuckle her greaves and lift the hem of her vest. 

“Oh, you know … busy.”. She smiles and brings her hands to his mask. “May I?”. He nods permission and she works on the fastenings until it comes away and she can lean her forehead against his, caressing his face. “Oh, you have new scars …” - she pulls back again to examine the complex designs scored into the leathery flesh at his temples. “Beautiful. What are they for?”.

He rumbles again, smugly this time. “A successful hatching - many new young ones for my House. And this one, my son’s advancement last spring.”. 

She traces her fingers over the ritual marks. “Many congratulations, my friend - you must be very proud. Remind me to pay my respects to Anssi later. You chose your brood mother well.”. 

He nods and captures her hand in one of his, running the claws from another up and down the tender skin on the inside of her forearm. As she hums her satisfaction at the touch he gathers her up and deposits her on the bed, pulling at her clothes. “Ah, that is still my favourite sound.” he murmurs, increasing the pressure slightly and looking down at her face. “My trophy.”. She smiles agreement and mirrors his actions, stroking the softer skin in between the ridged plates on his forearm. “All yours, my friend.”. 

Her touch makes him shiver with impatience, and he wastes no more time on small talk. His claws expertly navigate buckles and buttons, removing every stitch she’s wearing while holding her in place and keeping at least one hand free to run over her skin. Her breathing comes faster as the garments are discarded and more hands come available to tease her body; four hands can cover a lot of erogenous zones, when the owner is as skilled as this one - and he’s made close study of this guardian's fascinating, fragile physique in the past. She’s aroused to the point of incoherence before he’s even half-done removing his own clothing, arching up wordlessly to meet his hands, and he purrs in self-satisfied approval at her reactions. As his last armour piece drops to the floor he moves over her and presses her against the bed, chanting praise of her body, before entering her with a triumphant roar. 

* * *

The rest of the party are politely but firmly shown to another alcove on the opposite side of the cave; the whole floor in here is covered with thick mats stuffed with layers of fabric for insulation, and there are tidy stacks of extra blankets folded in each corner. Raven picks one off the top of the pile and opens it out, exclaiming quietly as she runs it through her hands and assesses the close weave and heavy texture with an expert eye. 

“Oh wow, this is lush - do you think they’ll miss one when we leave?”. 

Maas grins, despite his fidgets over what’s happening with Sully right now, and shakes his head. “Tempting - but we don’t want to be starting wars over blankets, no matter how ‘lush' they are. Enjoy it while you can.”. 

Just then, unmistakeable sounds float across from the other side; the youngsters stiffen in alarm before Maas waves a reassuring hand. “I know what it sounds like, but it’s fine - anyone who can make Sully scream like that, well, they’re doing alright. And I assume whatever else that was is our host being similarly, um, impressed. Everybody settle down and get some sleep.”.

* * *

It’s several hours and a great deal more noise later when the captain finally emerges - alone, partly dressed, but minus his mask and armour. He seems mightily pleased with himself, sitting down at the table and spreading himself across the bench, stretching all his limbs out to their full extent. He catches Maas’s eye around a gap in the hanging, noting the warlock’s worried expression, and his jaw drops in a grin. 

“Your friend is sleeping. I wore them out.” and he snickers to himself. Maas turns hastily away, laying back down and trying to get to sleep.

* * *

They’re woken just after dawn, and file out in a subdued mood to sit at the table. Sully is hunched at one end, apparently naked apart from a huge animal fur wrapped around her. It doesn’t quite cover her shoulders; there are multiple grazes, claw marks and bruises covering what they can see of her upper body. She's addressing a large bowl of some sort of porridge with evident relish. Maas slides quickly over to sit next to her, and leans in. 

“Are you okay?” he whispers urgently. 

“Never better. A little sore, perhaps. I won’t be walking much today.”. She winks, then laughs outright at Maas’s bemused expression. “Relax, guardian. Eliksni biology is perfectly compatible with Awoken. Very much so, in fact.”. 

“Yes, but … do you need your ghost to heal you …?”. He gestures at the marks with concern. 

“Absolutely not. The whole House needs to see that Trix has had his tribute; it’s a status thing.”.

He subsides, defeated. She spoons up some more porridge, gesturing that Maas should help himself to some from the large pan on the stove, but he shakes his head. She shrugs, _your loss_, and finishes her bowlful before rising to get herself another portion.

Maas frowns as he remembers yesterday’s briefing. “If the captain has a wife … is she okay with him and you, you know …?”. Sully smirks at his apparent inability to say the words outright, and stares him down until he reddens under his tattoos. “Damn you, you know what I mean. Is it a problem for her, that he took you to bed last night?”.

“Is it a problem for you, that I went to bed with someone else last night?”, she counters.

“Of course not! but … we’re not married, I mean - we just have fun, I don’t own you. This sounds, I dunno, different.”. 

She laughs and relents. “One of the things I like best about the Eliksni is that they’re not hung up on the heteronormative forced monogamy bullshit that most humans are so wedded to - excuse the pun. They’ve got a good clear cultural model that allows for fluid sexuality, recreational sex, friends with benefits, polyamorous relationship structures and whatever else. Our host’s bonded brood mother happens to be both his partner in parenting, _and _the person he comes back to at days end - but those two don’t always have to be the same thing.”.

The others have reached the table in time to hear this, and are evenly split between aghast and fascinated, but before they can ask more questions the captain comes in from the main door. He registers the awkward silence and takes a swift look at the group clustered round the table; then he steps behind the titan and places a hand on her head, ruffling the short hair in a curiously tender gesture. He asks her something in Eliksni; she answers him with a smirk and he laughs. 

“Ah, your young friends have much to learn. A good thing they have you to teach them to be less narrow-minded.”. 

* * *

They’re released out into the central space after breakfast, with two small Dregs from the household detailed to make sure they don’t get into trouble. It seems unlikely that they’ll get the opportunity, as none of the other Eliksni seem too keen to interact with the uninvited strangers in their midst. However when Sully finally gets dressed and comes down to join them it’s instantly a different story; a crowd of maybe a dozen small ones rush over with delighted squeals, repeating something over and over and leaping up to grab at her arms. 

Dina steps back in laughing alarm. “Oh my, you’re popular - what are they saying?”. 

“Ah; it seems I’ve got a new nickname.”. Sully pauses for a moment, listening. “Best I can translate, is ‘Uncle Squishy.”.

Dina blinks. “_Uncle Squishy_. You’re messing with me.”. 

The titan grins broadly. “I would _never_.”. She's being mauled by several little ones now, anxious to play with their new friend, and she lets them hang off her arms and swing to and fro. She goes on; “They’re using a gender neutral honorific reserved for peripherally related members of the extended family, and the nickname they give to humans. ‘Squishy’ is an almost exact translation; our skin is so fragile compared to their exoskeleton.”. Dina absorbs this in silence; it seems feasible, though she knows her clanmate isn’t above teasing her. She shakes her head with an indulgent half-smile and looks around her. 

The space is a bustle of activity, with Eliksni moving around on errands or at work on different tasks everywhere she looks. All of her contact with the alien race before this has been in combat and in military settings, so seeing them engaged in ordinary domestic activity is disorienting. Humanising, even - it’s easy to think of your enemy as monsters when you only ever see them pointing a weapon at you, not so much when you see them playing hide and seek with their children or stirring porridge on a stove. It’s a thought-provoking scene, and she sits quietly and watches for quite some time.

After a while she notices a pattern - there’s a steady flow of Eliksni finding apparently legitimate reasons to come past where they are, some stopping to exchange a greeting or a nod with Sully and others just casually continuing past; but without exception they all make a point of checking out the marks Aratrikss has left on her neck and arms. She politely ignores the obvious scrutiny, only smirking faintly now and then as they murmur in … approval? possibly some surprise … and move on.

“Trix owes me, _big_ time.” she murmurs, and Dina muffles a laugh at the devilish look on her face.

* * *

Maas has shepherded the rest of the younger guardians to a relatively clear space over by the rock wall, out of the way of busy people with work to do, and taken up a perch on a stone bench at the back of the meeting space. He should be taking the chance to observe the Eliksni, but he’s more caught up watching Sully as she plays with the small ones and gossips with their caregivers. She’s entirely comfortable in here, she knows just what to say and do … like she’s lived this life before. He sighs; he’s known her for nearly two years, but her history before that is completely closed to him. It’s a sign of carefully-earned trust that she’ll even sleep next to him, he knows that much, but she refuses to talk about why that is.

Lost in introspection, he suddenly realises someone has stopped beside him as if to attract his attention; as he turns he registers it’s the captain, and his face goes carefully blank. Aratrikss chuckles. “Still disgusted, I see.”. 

Maas raises a hand in hasty protest. “Confused,” he clarifies. “A little surprised. Okay, _very_ surprised. I’ll recover.”. He stares straight ahead, wishing their host would take a hint. He doesn’t however, and instead settles himself on the bench. 

“How do you name them? Your friend?” he enquires. 

The warlock blinks as he parses the oddly-phrased question. “Oh … right. Their name is Sully.”. 

The captain shakes his head. “They have many names. Your name for them is Sully. We call them, _Xe_. It means ‘Shine'.”. 

Maas isn’t sure what to do with that information; he settles for a non-committal but interested face, and waits. The captain goes on; "They have been my friend for a long time. A treasured friendship, for more reasons than you could possibly know.”. 

He doesn’t know how to feel about that. “They never mentioned it … I mean, I knew they had friends everywhere and history that I didn’t know about, but I never thought it would be … “. He tails off, realising he was on the point of saying something uncomplimentary, if not downright insulting. The captain laughs, evidently reading the subtext. 

“ … as bad as this, you would say? They are something unique, for a squishy. They do not fear difference.”. 

There’s more silence, less awkward than it was to begin with as Maas absorbs the captain’s words and realises he and this terrifying giant alien warrior are in total agreement when it comes to his clanmate. He nods thoughtfully and the captain goes on. 

“They have won the respect of this whole house for returning the hatchlings safely. They show proper respect to the Archon. And to their host.” For a second his tone is smug again, and Maas can’t help but smirk. The captain nods firmly. “They will be allowed to leave, and they will be welcome again. You too, as you are their friends. They vouch for you.” and he waves a hand at the whole group. Then he gets up and heads off towards the other side of the cavern, conversation over. 

* * *

Maas looks up to find that Sully has finally been relieved of play duty and has moved on to another part of the cavern, sitting amongst a noisy crowd of Eliksni huddled together. He strolls over to take a chance at being included, hoping her welcome will stretch to cover him, and finds himself at the edge of a complex game of some kind, counters and dice flying across a patterned board too fast for him to make sense of. The play pieces are discs of some greenish stone, carved with stylised representations of different weapons and vehicles - some variant of battle chess, perhaps? She seems entirely familiar with it, anyway; occasionally she calls a play, and one of the Vandals next to her implements it. He watches for a while, no closer to understanding the rules - or the point - until the game concludes and the group disperses with some backslapping and complex handshakes, congratulations and commiserations across the table. He passes on the captain’s message, and she nods. “That’s a hint - time to pack up and go. We can pick up the planned route and be back at the Tower more or less on schedule.”.

* * *

They depart under cover of darkness, escorted to the entrance by Aratikss himself and the small Dreg they first met - his son, they understand from his comments. As they step out into the night air he wraps Sully in a comprehensive hug, then presses a small cloth-wrapped bundle into her hands. She laughs quietly as she feels the sloshing of liquid against glass from within the wrapping - looks like he’s liberated more treasures from some unlucky bootlegger’s ancient stash - and nods her thanks as she turns away to join the column.

They walk in studied silence for half an hour before one of the kinderguardians speaks. “I don’t know how I’m going to explain all of this when we get back to the Tower.”. 

Sully answers firmly from the back of the column. “You don’t. Everything you saw and heard inside the Fallen camp is extremely sensitive, and the Vanguard will decide how to make it general knowledge. _If_ they ever do.”. 

They all digest this for a moment; culture shock aside, they all know they’re privileged to have been part of this development in diplomatic relations with their ancient enemy - and besides, they desperately want to stay on the hero’s good side. When they take a brief rest for a drink of water and rat bars an hour later, Maas takes the opportunity to deliver a short debrief on how they should handle questions, and provides an innocuous cover story they can all use in case more detail is needed; knowing from experience how pointed silence will just give rise to gossip, Echo Three have a selection of interesting embellishments that will satisfy the most aggressive tattlemongers while giving absolutely nothing away.


	14. Boundaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Relieved to have the guardian back within reach, Drifter gets overconfident and makes a wrong move.

It’s a long dreary month, waiting for her to return. 

Drifter's taken to sleeping in the container most nights, unable or unwilling to process the complex feelings the pillow fort sparks in him when he knows she won’t be joining him - he considers breaking it down, putting everything back into storage, then decides he's too busy right now. Not too busy to rig up an intercept on Tower gate comms, though, so he knows who’s coming in and out. He tells himself it’s so he’ll know if things kick off outside the city and refugees start arriving, and that’s a lie even he can swallow.

* * *

Early one morning Tower-time, just before dawn, he finally hears the telltale beep/crackle of the outer gate opening a channel; then ‘_Welcome home, Echo Three. Cleared for entry_.’ He freezes in his tracks and listens intently, but that’s all there is. No matter. He got the mission and fireteam codes from an intercepted admin message several days back, so he knows it’s them; he shouldn't have long to wait now. He indulges himself with a brief vision of their imminent reunion, and smiles to himself as he looks over the day’s plans. As soon as the Tower’s day begins he sends a message off to the rookie, switching duty to send him off on some errands across the system '_to blow the cobwebs away_’ as he frames it, and installs himself in the basement ready for the day’s influx. 

A tantalisingly small amount of intel trickles in during the course of the day, courtesy of gossiping guardians in the Gambit queue; so he knows she’s definitely back, she's been into five lengthy debriefs with the Vanguard already, and apparently she’s acquired an adoring gaggle of new guardians who will now follow her to the gates of hell itself as a result of whatever they saw out there. Must have been one hell of an initiation. But there’s no information about what she’s doing _now _… 

During a quiet moment he checks the roster; it’s been updated since first thing, and her name has been hastily assigned to ‘Team Induction and Familiarisation’ - looks like the Vanguard have cancelled what should be some well-earned downtime and effectively stuck her with babysitting the new people until they're assigned full duties. That’s all well and good - keeps her tied to the Tower for a while, which he’s in firmly favour of - but doesn’t give her any free time to speak of. 

He's not surprised when she doesn’t show up at all that day, or the next; but by the third day of silence he’s beginning to get jittery. He’s effectively tied himself to this damn basement because the rookie’s all the way over on Io now, out of reach for the next couple of days; he has nobody to spell him so he can get out to see where she is, how she is, if she's ready to socialise … it’s somehow worse than when she was simply absent altogether. He wonders if it’s safe to send a private message just to check in - no, bad idea; she’s surrounded by people for the foreseeable future, no opportunities for privacy. 

He’ll give it one more day, he decides; no need to be hasty. If nothing happens, maybe he can shut up shop for an afternoon, cancel Gambit, and go see what he can find out for himself.

* * *

He’s finally rewarded mid-morning on the fourth day, before he has to put his contingency plan into effect; the basement fills up with over a dozen new faces, trailing the titan and her fireteam like imprinted ducklings. It’s cute, and not a little incongruous considering the weaponry these ducklings are packing between them, and he has to choke down a laugh at the sight. Maas steps up to introduce the newbies; he jokes and charms and tries like hell to memorise names and faces for the catalogue. He reckons he’s got most of them by the time the introductions are done, and he’s so pleased with himself he allows a few of them to step up to the bank for a closer look, fielding their naive questions like it’s some sort of goddamn school trip.

While they’re all occupied he steps back to her, leaning in so only she can hear him. “Hey hero - how’s babysittin’ duty workin’ out for ya?”. A ghost of a smile flickers across her mouth. He grins, relieved to get a reaction for a change. “Vanguard must be crazy, stickin’ you with this. You should come work for me instead; I could use ya. Been thinkin' about it for a while.”. 

That’s all he has time for; the kinderguardians are surging back towards them now, curiosity satisfied for the time being, and she’s moved away from him by the flow of bodies as they head to the door. A month’s worth of frustration boils up in him - she’s just got here, and now she’s being whisked away without a word? _Oh no you don’t_ \- he slips deftly through the crowd and grabs her arm, aiming to turn her back for a private word before she goes. 

In that split second she pulls back, moving faster than he’s ever seen her move, and something appears a fraction of an inch from his eyeball; he has to cross his eyes to register that it’s a lethal sliver of something set in a hilt firmly grasped in the titan’s unmoving fist. As he takes that in, and tries not to breathe too aggressively, he can focus on her face and _oh fuck so that’s what she looks like when she’s angry_ … no wonder the clan doesn’t want to cross her. It’s pure ice-cold fury; eyes wide, jaw set ... he’s no slouch when it comes to fighting, but that’s not a fighting face - that’s the face of murder, summoned by reflex to end a threat before it can end her. 

He hastily steps back a pace; “Whoa now, hero - I just needed a word, okay?”. 

The newbies are slowly reaching for weapons too, he notes; one or two pointed at him as they follow their hero’s lead. If this had really been a threat, they'd all be way too late to help - but they reacted without question. _By damn she’s got the happy knack of makin' friends, just look at all these babies ready to die for her without even knowin' why _… That knife is still levelled at him; he can see it a little better now, a wicked translucent blade maybe nine inches long with a slight curve on one edge and a barb up near the hilt. It looks oddly familiar - something like the business end of a Fallen arc spear, reset into a short grip of some kind and repurposed as a dagger. Nice workmanship, he can’t help noticing, even in his distracted state. 

She grimaces faintly and raises her other hand in a crisp combat signal: _stand down_. Guns are lowered and he breathes slightly easier; and at last the knife goes down, crisply stowed in an integral scabbard in her armoured chest plate. Her ghost appears at her shoulder as she holds his gaze, then speaks tersely. “Maybe later. We have somewhere to be.”. And she’s gone, out of the door and left towards the transmat pads, before he can react. Hasty moves seem like a very bad idea right now in any case, he reflects; he recovers his swagger and turns back to the rest of the group, gesturing ruefully in her direction. 

“You kids are in good hands - ain’t no-one getting past yer baby-sitter!” he chuckles, and a couple of them roll their eyes. But at least they relax, uncertain smiles flickering between them; possibly they’re humouring him, but he’ll take that over pointing guns at him any day. He answers a few more questions about Gambit before firmly seeing them all out and setting about finding out what the hell is going on. 

Repeated message requests to her ghost are rejected unanswered, and after the first few he just gets _recipient unobtainable_. Baffled, he shutters the basement, cancels all games for the rest of the day, and heads back to the Derelict to see if he can’t get himself properly blind drunk. 

* * *

Somewhere before the end of the third bottle, mulling over the encounter, he circles back to his scheme to get her on his side. He’s more determined than ever; he just witnessed first hand what it _really_ means, to be ready to follow someone to hell and back - and what it looks like when someone can convince a dozen strangers to be ready to do that in a few short weeks. _What the hell did they all see out there …?_ Whether she scared them all into submission, or inspired them some other way, he doesn’t care. He needs her on his side, _at_ his side, more than ever.

* * *

<I think you scared him.>

_i think he just learned something important_

<You didn’t see his face when you walked away - he looked frantic there, for just a second. And he’s tried to call you, let’s see, fifteen times in the last hour. Are you going to talk to him?>

_he needs me for one of his schemes, you heard him_

_i’m not interested in being used_

<I’m not so sure. I think he genuinely cares about you. >

_when did you start caring about his feelings?_

<Same time you did.>

_shut up_


	15. The Drunk Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talk about catching a man when he's down - hungover Drifter is too befuddled to be manipulative, which ends up working in his favour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know how sad you all get when I make Drifter sad; here, have a happy reunion chapter :)
> 
> The chapter title comes from the saying, 'The drunk mind speaks the sober heart' (attr. Rousseau).

He snorts himself awake in near-total darkness, slumped in the command chair; he’s both snoring and drooling, and there’s an almighty crick in his neck from the awkward position he's slept in. Empty bottles clink together under his feet as he shifts blearily. He leans back with a grimace to stretch and yawn, grateful he’s alone; can’t be a pretty picture right now.

Aw, _shit_. 

There’s a dim figure in the other chair; sitting cross-legged, resting her chin on her hand, is the hero. It’s too dim to see her face clearly, but she seems to be just watching him. He gapes for a second - hallucination? Nah, he’s not that lucky. Muzzily he grumbles “I swear I patched that goddam transmat hole. How many more tricks you got?”. She half-smiles at that; how apt, that his first reaction should be to worry about his security. 

He shakes his head, and instantly regrets it. “_Fuck_.” he whispers with feeling, and leans forward to rub his numb face. His ghost appears and tries to offer healing but he swats it away with an irritated gesture and fumbles for the lighting controls on the console beside him. As the lights slowly power up he sits back and closes his eyes again with a pained grimace, shutting out the growing glare.

“How fucked am I right now? With you, I mean?” he finally asks, squinting across at her to see her reaction. 

She watches him carefully for a moment before responding. “Not beyond recovery. Don't ever grab me like that again. I have boundaries for a reason.”. 

“No shit. Must’ve been somethin' bad to make you go off like that.”.

“Yes. You don’t need the details.”. 

She sounds perfectly calm, like she’s stating the only possible future, and he suppresses a shiver at the implacable tone. But now he can see her better, her face is … oddly strained, like she’s reliving some old hurt. It’s the first uncontrolled emotional response he’s ever seen her display, aside from that moment of anger in the basement, and he curses himself for having been the cause of it. This is all very far from the reunion he’d been hoping for.

He nods - carefully so as not to set up the pounding in his skull again - and shuts his eyes for a moment. When he feels able to open them again she's still there, just watching him with that hint of doubt and pain. He swallows a surge of despair and tries to figure out what to do next. If it’s not already too late.

Whichever way it goes, he decides he’s wallowed enough; he levers himself to his feet with a grunt, weaving across to the tiny galley to brew some coffee. He optimistically puts on enough for two, leaning heavily on the counter with his head in his hands again while it brews, and pouring both cups with exaggerated care. As he takes his first swig she comes up alongside him and leans against the counter, picking up the second cup without comment. He waits for the coffee to start taking effect before he tries to articulate his muddled thoughts. 

“I missed you …” is his opening gambit; weak, but heartfelt. She nods faint acknowledgement and takes a sip of her coffee without looking at him. He tries again. “I shouldn’t’ve grabbed ya like that. I guess - well, you know how I get.”. 

Still no response. _Fuck_. He thinks hard about how he’s feeling; if he’s going to recover any ground he needs her to understand. But first he needs to understand it himself … he tries one more time.

“It freaks me out when you act like you don’t know me. I don’t even know why. But I guess, you bein’ away so long, it just boiled over.”. 

“You’d be comfortable with the whole Tower gossiping about us?”, she counters. "I generally don’t advertise my friendships.”. 

He pauses to consider the implications of that. She’s right, of course; he considers the likely fallout from people knowing how he feels about her. Gossip wouldn’t be the half of it. “No, I guess not. But I feel how I feel. Can’t help that.”. 

The buzzing in his brain is gradually subsiding, and a thought occurs; “Why’d you come up here, anyway? I figured you’d be done with me for sure.”.

At last she smiles faintly, a hint of her impish grin breaking through as she raises her coffee for another swig. “My ghost was worried about you.”. 

“Oh, just your ghost? You weren’t worried?”. The brushed steel texture of the counter in front of him is suddenly fascinating; he stares down at the patterns of light shifting across it, nursing a tiny flicker of hope. 

“Maybe a little.”.

He looks up swiftly at the new warmth in her voice - she’s smiling for real now, watching him fail abjectly to play it cool. _Praise be, I think we’re okay_. He grins foolishly and asks the next question on his list. 

“How long you got?”. 

She quirks a knowing eyebrow at him and he suddenly feels much better; his swagger returns. “Cuz if you don’t have anywhere to be, I, uh, have a coupla ideas … “ he murmurs, and she lets him reach for her and draw her close.

* * *

The sex is gentle for once, almost careful; in deference to how delicate he’s feeling, and by way of unspoken apology for his misstep, he takes his sweet time bringing her to peak after peak before taking his turn. As he comes he shudders blissfully, burying his face in the curve of her neck and soaking up the smell and the feel and the sound of her. 

“_Fuck_,” he says eventually, lifting his head and resting his forehead gently on hers; “silver girl, you do it to me, y’know?”. He feels her blink. _Damn, that wasn’t supposed to slip out_. It’s how he’s been thinking of her, _Silver, his silver girl_, just for him. Her other names - _titan, hero, guardian_, even _Sully_ \- all belong to other people. He tenses, not daring to look at her.

“That’s the second time you’ve called me that. Is that how you see me?”. 

“I guess. Just .. yeah. Didn’t mean t'say it out loud. Tell me I’m stupid if y’like.”

“It’s fine.”. 

Traveller only knows what she’s thinking, but she doesn’t seem bothered enough to make a big deal of it. He rests his head back down, relieved, and gathers the energy to roll off her and lay back down. She turns towards him and they tangle comfortably together against the cushions, wrapped around each other in sleepy afterglow. He strains every nerve not to bring up how soon she might have to go, although it’s at the top of his mind. Instead he muses, “Y’know, you never say my name.”.

He feels her chuckle silently. “I don’t know your name. And don’t say ‘Drifter', that’s not your name. That’s a job description.”. 

He shifts uncomfortably; _yeah, she's got me there_. Even he doesn’t know what his original name was, and he’s been through a few over the years now, never able to settle on one that felt right.

“I used to go by ‘Eli’,” he offers. If he had to pick, that one has the least amount of miserable memories attached. One shoulder shrugs and she snuggles a little closer against him.

“Nice,” she murmurs. "Maybe I'll scream that next time.”. He laughs; she doesn’t seem to care - like names are the least important piece of the way they know each other. He supposes she's right. 

She finds his hand and laces her fingers through his for a second. At her quiet “Hmm.”, he opens his heavy eyes for a second.

“What?” he squints. 

“Silver and gold.”. She lifts their joined hands so he can see what she's looking at; his natural tan intertwined with her pale skin.

“Hah! Don't go gettin' poetic on me, hero.”. He can’t suppress the grin he’s wearing right now, though.


	16. Faerie Glimmer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drifter gets a warning from the Vanguard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly smut; next chapter will include more plot, a little drama, and an unexpected visitor to the Tower.

He wakes with a start; the space beside him is empty, and he has no idea what time it is. He soon finds out though - the rookie is pounding on the hatch, on the INSIDE of the goddam hatch, _what the fuck, kid?_ and looking down at him furiously. That means it’s past midday, that’s when he was due back. He rolls over, taking a swift recce of the bedroom - no, she’s definitely gone. Thank fuck for that - just for a change he's glad she's not still here, that would have been an awkward conversation.

He squints up; “What’s up, kid?”.

“What’s up? I get back from Io, I go to the basement, they tell me nobody’s seen you since the day before yesterday when you nearly got yourself stabbed by that fucking psychopath titan …! I came up to check you weren't dead. Good to see you too, asshole.” And the kid flings himself out of the hatch opening, stomping across to the galley by the sounds of it. Drifter takes a moment to pull on his clothes and follows. The marks from earlier, from nails and teeth, twinge slightly as he moves, and he breaks out in a wide grin at the memory each one evokes.

The rookie isn’t impressed. “Why the fuck are you so happy?”.

“Would you believe, the love of a good woman?”, Drifter crows as he refreshes the coffee pot swiftly. “Or a bad one; could go either way. Don't believe I care which.”. He laughs out loud at his own wit, and sees the rookie’s sour expression fade into something like indulgence.

“_Sure_, grandpa. If she’s real and not just a whisky dream.”. He indicates the empty bottles still piled under the command chair.

“Well, if she ain’t real, the smile she puts on my face sure is. Good enough for me. 'Faerie glimmer', I call her, lets me handle her all night long and melts away by mornin'. Practically the perfect woman.”. 

That makes the rookie laugh at last; he accepts the cup of coffee shoved in his direction and they get down to discussing the Io deal and next steps. He’s warmed to the kid over the few months they’ve been working together; for a straight-up hero he’s disturbingly quick to unlearn good habits and adopt bad ones, and he doesn’t need telling twice. As far as Drifter cares about anyone, he’s invested in seeing this one survive the coming Darkness. There are a few others - and for a moment he imagines the rookie’s face when he finds out ‘_that psychopath titan_’ is one of them - but this partnership is looking solid. He decides there are some problems for another day, when he isn’t hungover and emotionally raw; and crew dynamics is definitely one of them.

* * *

The Tower is buzzing, he soon discovers, with gossip about his near-death experience at her hands and wild theories about the reasons. People watch closely when they’re in proximity to each other, waiting to see if it’s going to kick off, and he finds himself more grateful than frustrated now for her impeccable poker face and distant demeanour. He makes sure to acknowledge the many jibes he hears with a rueful smile, a shrug, a comment about being more careful around the hero in future, and gradually people’s interest fades as it becomes clear there’s no further entertainment to be had out of this. There’ll be a new scandal to eclipse this soon enough.

He wasn't expecting the Vanguard’s interest, though in hindsight he should have done. He certainly doesn’t expect the form it takes.

Watching comings and goings in the courtyard as usual, in his drab work clothes so as not to draw attention, he becomes aware of a figure coming to a stop a few feet away; warlock robes swirl briefly in his line of sight as they turn slightly. He doesn’t look up to see who it is; he’ll wait until they move on. Instead he pretends to study the machine part he’s turning over, as if searching for a serial number to match to a manifest. He can’t disguise the start he gets when Ikora speaks.

“They are not for you.”.

“Huh?” He’s startled into looking up, confusion overriding subterfuge. She knows full well who he is, anyway, despite the cover story the Tower authorities have agreed to. He hastily searches his conscience - does she mean the rookie, or the titan? Or someone else entirely?

“You heard me. Sully is not for you. You’ve entangled enough of our best people in your scheme already. Be satisfied.”.

He lets out an incredulous huff. “You think you get to choose who they hang out with?”.

Ikora smiles bitterly. “I would not presume. But don’t insult us both by pretending that’s what this is - you plan to use them, nothing more. I believe you will be disappointed.”.

She moves on, as if she hadn’t just served up the most cryptic utterance he may have ever heard - and that takes some doing, after all his circular conversations with that damn emissary. He mulls it over all the way back to the Derelict.

* * *

It's a good while before he feels able to broach the subject with Sully; he chooses his moment when she's sleepy and sated, curled up on the cushions beside him with her legs tangled in his. He almost hesitates to bring it up at all, she looks so comfortable, but Ikora's words have revived his dormant paranoia; if he's destined to be disappointed, he needs to be prepared.

“So … Vanguard warned me off you. Tried to, anyway.”.

A smile starts, one he’s not seen on her before; distant and slightly grim, as if she’s just had a suspicion confirmed. “Oh?”.

“Yeah. Care to tell me what’s goin’ on with that?” 

She sighs. “Ikora, yes? What did she say?”.

“She said I can't have you. More or less.”. He shrugs, as if the idea that she might be forced to give him up didn't just make his gut clench with anxiety. 

She leans back to get a better look at his face and smiles wickedly, curling her fingers around his. “Well ... lucky for you, I disagree.”. She lifts her face to kiss him, taking advantage of his distraction to roll him over and pin him to the cushions.

He laughs up at her, mock-frowning. "Changin' the subject, hero?".

"Absolutely not. I'm disproving her theory.". She kisses him again, tousling his hair, and he forgets about his worries as his body responds.

For all his years and experience, he’s never had a sexual encounter like this; she straddles him, coaxes him to readiness with expert hands, slides on to him and holds him still while she rides him. Changing pace, hard and fast then - just as he’s gasping - holding perfectly still before setting up again at a gentle rhythm that keeps him right on the edge. At one point she leans back, giving him the perfect view of the muscles rippling up her abdomen, and reaches back to gently cups his balls as she rides. He tenses helplessly as the urge to come rises and she halts again. He grimaces in protest.

”Damn,” he manages a breathless whisper, “how long you plannin' to tease me, silver girl?”.

She smiles a lazy, satisfied smile and picks up the pace again, and he has no more words. Two more times she takes him to the edge and stops just short as he tenses in anticipation; finally she leans down, kisses him deeply, murmurs in his ear; “Ready?”.

He can’t speak; he can barely nod. She sits up again, leaning right back, and he groans as the pressure on his cock shifts. Then there’s that gentle hand again, cupping and stroking, and _ah fuck_ that’s a finger just touching his rim, probing without entering, _fuck fuck fuck _... as she deliberately clenches and releases the strong muscles at her core, inducing her own release, tensing and shuddering on top of him … _oh fuck_. He comes silently, helplessly, a strangled hiss escaping him as the sensation radiates out from his core and washes over every part of him. It’s like an out of body experience; his eyes roll back in his head as he fights to remember to breathe.

He lies perfectly still in the afterglow, breathing hard and fighting for composure. As she relaxes and drapes herself across him he can barely raise an arm to hold her, and settles for weakly grasping her waist. He still hasn’t recovered enough to string a sentence together by the time he falls asleep.

* * *

He wakes up alone; she must have slipped away in the night again. He summons his ghost; “Did you see her off the ship?” The ghost nods affirmative; no need to ask which ‘her’.


	17. Diplomacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected visitor to the Tower upsets the power balance, and our hero has a falling-out with the Vanguard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were some queries about whether human/Awoken physiology can tolerate ether; I did a spot of googling, like a responsible author, and found a lore entry that suggests Uldren Sov developed an ether habit after losing Mara. So I'm choosing to headcanon that ether, like alcohol, is a toxic substance that in small doses can have a beneficial effect - much like using a tot of strong spirits like a tonic, or using fizzy wine to combat nerves or nausea. 
> 
> This chapter is all drama and plot, no smut, sorry. But we're getting some idea of why Sully reacts the way they do to certain stimuli ...

Winter has set in with a vengeance; there’s been a run of bright but cruelly chill days, white clouds massing in the distance carrying the promise of snow one of these days, and as Drifter arrives to open up the basement today the sun is low on the horizon, sullenly red. Back in the dark years that sort of thing used to be a portent of trouble brewing; now it’s just weather. When trouble surrounds you on a daily basis, you don’t waste your time looking for omens in the sky.

He moves around the room making his preparations for the day, watching his breath freeze in the air in front of him. It might actually be warmer outside than it is in here right now … he tests that theory, heading out to the transmat pads for a few minutes to soak up some of the weak sunshine. A thin layer of frost sparkles on the metal railings in front of him; nope, it’s no warmer. He stamps his feet and heads back inside, deciding his best bet is to keep moving until it warms up a bit.

* * *

By mid-morning the basement has finally reached a more hospitable temperature, helped along by the usual crowd of bodies as guardians come in for team lists, trade and gossip. He’s managing the queue with his usual efficient rhythm when every guardian’s ghost abruptly appears at once, and every head snaps up as silent transmissions are received. They scramble en masse to the door without a word, and he exchanges a sharp glance with the rookie. His silent ghost is no use to him here; is this it? Finally, the invasion he’s been dreading? Apparently not; the rookie finishes listening to his own ghost with a faint frown, then waves a reassuring hand. “Fallen. Just one, a captain, at the main Tower gate.”.

Drifter's brows snap together; that sounds like it could be trouble - enough out of the ordinary to be worth a look, in any case. He heads swiftly to the door, aiming for a vantage point to see the approach to the gate in question. As he goes he can hear Tower comms broadcasting soothing crowd control messages, telling citizens to go about their business, and other, more stern edicts to Tower personnel and guardians to get back to their duties. They're being ignored; he has to fight to get through the crowd gathering around the area of the gate, curious civilians and alert guardians alike, and he wonders if they’ll all congregate like this to spectate the end of the world. Probably, he thinks bitterly, gawking to the last as civilisation collapses around them.

He finally reaches the spot he had in mind, off to one side of the gate approach; high walls surround the avenue, with a walkway running along the inside for defenders to stand to see who’s coming in and get a clear shot at them if need be. It’s less crowded now, most people either not knowing about the route up to the walkway or not caring to stand in line of sight for snipers. As he reaches the top he scans the landscape beyond the wall by reflex, checking for any sign of hostile intent; nothing that he can see.

The Fallen captain is standing patiently just outside the gate, apparently at ease. Drifter doesn’t recognise the house sigil on the cloak, if that’s what it is, or the colours on the battered armour; he appraises the height and reach of the captain, guesses they’ve been at that rank a good while, might be heading for Archon soon. He looks every inch a soldier, and a potential threat; how the hell did he get this close without being shot? _Tower guard must be gettin' soft_.

There’s a sudden flurry of sound and movement down below, and the crowd stills in anticipation; Zavala appears from the guardhouse door in full battle gear followed by a troop of Tower guards, weapons pointed down .. for now. The Fallen stands straighter as he sees them emerge, then drops into an oddly graceful curtsy; both sets of arms spread wide, no visible weapons if you don’t count those damn claws - Drifter shifts uneasily, recalling how one or two of the survival tally scoring his torso were obtained, and strains to see what will happen next. 

The captain maintains the subservient pose, raising his head just slightly, and addresses the Vanguard commander. “We request speech with the Risen.” he grates, in passable Common. The crowd stirs, a murmur of surprise at the sound of a Fallen speaking. Many of them, Tower-bound, have never heard it before.

Zavala indicates himself. “You may speak to me.”.

The captain nods. “I would speak with Shine, the Risen. The Traveller’s Chosen. The God Slayer.” A pause; has he run out of honorifics? no. He adds, almost as an afterthought, “You name them, Sully.”, then he drops back a little, looking at the ground again. There’s a long, long moment while Zavala stands stock still, then he turns and barks an order at one of the guards, whipping back to glare at the captain and taking up a parade-ground stance.

It's several minutes before the the guardian appears, passing through the gate and coming alongside Zavala. She doesn't spare him a glance, looking straight across instead at the Fallen. Zavala addresses her - clipped, cold and furious. “_Guardian_. Would you care to tell me, _as your commander_, why there is a Fallen captain at our gate asking for you by name?”. The emphasis is unmistakeable; he’s been blindsided by this, and he wants explanations. She hesitates, weighing up and rejecting several possible answers, and instead walks up to the captain, speaking to him in Eliksni.

“The Tower welcomes Aratrikss of House Reborn.”.

The captain looks up at her voice, and his jaw drops slightly in an Eliksni smile. “It’s good to see you, my friend. We need your help, and you need ours. A situation has arisen. Will you vouch for me?”. The titan hesitates; the captain adds “I will gladly pay my host tribute.”.

She stares for a moment; then she leans a little closer, and nobody is close enough to hear her murmur, “I bet you will, you kinky fucker.”. A subtle grin robs her words of insult as she straightens up again.

The captain stands to his full height as she turns back to Zavala and summons her ghost to translate the conversation for his benefit, advising they should let the captain in as an ambassador of sorts and hear him out. After a moment of tense consideration the Vanguard commander assents, signalling the waiting troop to form a reception guard around the captain, and leads the group back inside towards the Vanguard’s briefing rooms.

Drifter shrugs at this point, and returns to the basement; he won’t get near the inner rooms they’ll be using, might as well wait until someone can fill him in on the gossip.

* * *

At the briefing room door here’s a tense moment as the guards try to work out how they can check the captain for weapons without starting a diplomatic incident. Fortunately he seems to sense the requirement, as he divests himself voluntarily of guns and blades, making a neat pile on top of a low wooden chest beside him. Sully watches, expressionless, as he does; when he indicates he’s done she shrugs and her ghost confirms "That’s probably all of them.”. The guards twitch nervously at the qualifier, but she catches the eye of the troop leader with a reassuring half smile and a nod; he signals the rest of them to relax and let the Captain pass. Ikora has been hastily summoned and is already seated at the table; Zavala takes a seat and indicates one to Sully, but pointedly doesn’t offer one to the captain. She grimaces; whether it’s legitimate war trauma or ingrained shape-hatred, that prejudice is going to make for a strained negotiation. She opts to remain standing in solidarity with the Eliksni.

Ikora breaks the silence. “What do they want?”.

Sully turns to the captain, signing _shall I speak for you?_ The captain gestures back _no_, and addresses the two commanders directly.

“I am Aratrikss, of House Reborn. We offer friendship. We have information for the Tower.”.

Ikora gestures him to continue.

“There are travellers, your people, trying to reach the city. Some very young. They are too close to Cabal camps. They have poor weapons. They fear us, will not let us help. We cannot keep them safe. You need to come and protect them.”.

There’s a long silence; the commanders exchange glances. Is this a trap of some kind? “Guardian,” Ikora addresses the titan now, “can we trust this captain?”.

The ghost answers. “As you would trust us.”.

There’s a pause while Ikora takes that in; of all the people in the room she knows just what a double-edged statement that is - the Vanguard's trust in the hero is a patchy thing, depending on whether she's doing what they want her to do in the way they want it done, and there have been ... differences of opinion, let's say, in the past. She makes meaningful eye contact for a second, assessing the almost aggressively blank stare she gets in response, before she goes on; “He came here just to tell us that?”. 

Sully turns to the captain, a gesture inviting him to continue.

“We also need your help. One of our young is sick and needs healing. We know the Risen can do this.” Whether he means the Risen in general, or this particular one, he doesn’t specify.

The commanders turn to confer quietly, departing the logistical and strategic concerns arising from the new information; Sully takes advantage of their preoccupation to speak to the captain. 

“Trix;” she murmurs, deadpan, “why are you speaking Common like a drunken Dreg? I taught you better than that.”.

His jaw drops in a smile; “You also taught me to let my enemy feel superior.”, he observes, and she stifles a snort of laughter. It fades as she remembers the other errand that’s brought the captain here.

“How did the young one get sick?”.

Aratrikss sobers too. “He was on his first hunt; they were attacked and he took an injury. It’s …not healing right. We are very worried.”. The strain is clear on his face, but she has no time for follow up questions as the Vanguard turn their attention back to their visitor. Decisions have been made, it seems; Aratrikss is released to the titan's custody, with two Tower guards detailed to escort them, while the rescue mission is coordinated.

* * *

Their route takes them to the transmat pad in the annex, aiming to go up through one of the quieter routes towards the hangar. Drifter’s back in his usual spot by now, already surrounded by a crowd looking to get back to their interrupted day. Conversation drops away as the captain passes the doorway, and he halts to review his audience; there are a few faces in there he recognises from the kinderguardian patrol and he inclines his head in dignified greeting. His attention is quickly drawn to the Drifter, leaning easily on the railing to the side flipping a coin; he accurately decodes the faux-casual territorial display, and observes how the renegade’s eyes are fixed on the guardian at his side. She hasn't shared anything about her relationship with the Drifter with him, but still - you don't get to his rank by not being able to read the room.

“That one … smells like jealousy.”, he observes quietly in Eliksni. The corner of her mouth quirks, almost a smile, for just a second. “So do you.”. He grunts, acknowledging the parry, and obediently follows as she leads on.

Things happen fast when the Vanguard makes a decision; three Fireteams are mustering in the hangar already, grouping up to check their gear. Sully notes that Zavala has chosen at least one team he’s confident of controlling, stubbornly loyal play-by-the-rules types, and she has no doubt he’s instructed their leader to report back to him specifically everything that they see. He's put Maas in overall charge though, and she's grateful for that. She knows her clanmate well, knows the warlock is less ignorant and more flexible.

She sits on a crate to stow rations and supplies in her pack, the captain hovering nearby, and they quietly converse in Eliksni as she checks details of the route and potential hazards based on his most recent contact with his scouts in the area. Aside from Echo Three the guardians are clearly uneasy with this departure from the usual dynamic, and there’s some muttering. It won’t be long before somebody decides to push their luck, she knows, reading the mood … and _ah, there it is_, a hunter is stepping over with a swagger. Young-ish, male, human, arrogant. She doesn’t know him particularly well but by damn she knows the type - grasping for status, something of a bully when he thinks he can get away with it, always measuring himself by what he lacks that other people appear to have. 

She keeps her eyes on what she’s doing as he comes closer, letting him stand and stew in silence, inwardly smiling at his passive-aggressive expectation that she should read his mind and offer up what he wants to know before he has to ask for it. He actually huffs impatiently, like he's trying to attract the server’s attention at the noodle bar; tapping his foot and shifting his weight on purpose to make a noise and force her to acknowledge him. Eventually he gives in and speaks.

“This is bullshit. I don’t get why we’re trusting this … _bug_.”. He flaps a disgusted hand at Aratrikss, who stiffens very faintly at the insult. She makes a cautioning hand signal, _I’ve got this_, and fixes the hunter with an unconcerned gaze. She lets a beat pass before she makes another gesture to the captain, who immediately steps forward and makes a deep obeisance. She summons her ghost to speak; she’ll be damned before this whining manchild hears her true voice.

“He is here as an ambassador for his House. He understands that this requires him to put aside his pride and do whatever it takes to earn the trust of the Tower.”.

She gestures again; the captain leans forward until his forehead is on the ground, and she places one armoured foot on his huge head. The hunter watches in childish glee. The ghost continues; “ … an example in maturity and humility that you would do well to learn from, in case we ever decide to send an ambassador back in turn to the Eliksni.”. That instantly wipes the smile from his face; he hadn’t considered it might work the other way.

She isn’t done; the ghost adds one more thing. “If you ever try this, you’ll be minus a leg. That’s if you’re lucky. And we _will_ let you bleed out, as an example and a warning.”. This all delivered in a terse, uninterested tone that denotes it’s the guardian speaking, and all the more menacing because of it ... the hunter nods and backs away hastily to rejoin his own group, and at last she looks down and removes her foot.

“Up you get, rascal.”.

He does so, grinning. “Having fun?” he murmurs. Her answering smirk says it all. _Always_.

* * *

An hour or so later they’re heading out of a different gate, away from the disappointed crowds still hanging around on the main side hoping for more entertainment. The travellers’ camp is maybe half a day away from Trostland, a straightforward hike over walkable terrain with occasional sparse wooded cover - they could get there much faster by sparrow, but the engine trails might alert the nearby hostiles; the tentative plan, conditions permitting, is to escort them on foot to the nearest scout outpost and transmat them back from there.

With the short winter days, it’s already close to dusk by the time they arrive within sight of the small band of civilians huddled in a clearing, clearly in a bad way. They’re tired, travel stained, some injured; lacking supplies, with no decent outdoor gear or suitable winter clothes in evidence. The spot they’ve chosen has _terrible_ sight lines, must be the least defensible position for several miles, and there are rough tarps inexpertly strung as shelters from tree branches, indicating they’ve been here at least a day, and planning to remain at least one more. If the threatened snow had arrived tonight while they were out here they’d undoubtedly have lost a few people to the cold.

As the guardians approach there’s a scramble of activity and a middle-aged woman steps in front of them, levelling an antique rifle shakily at them. At Maas’s hand signal the guardians halt immediately, giving her time to take in the City insignia and the human/Awoken/exo forms, and she hesitantly drops the barrel away from them. Relief suffuses her worn face, but as the captain comes into view the gun jerks back up again.

Dina steps to the front and holds up both hands to appeal for calm. “Our friend here … “, she indicates Aratrikss, “tells us you’re having some trouble getting safely to the city. He came to ask us to provide an escort for you. How many of you are there?”.

The woman’s eyes flicker in dismay between the guardian, apparently an ally, and the captain, the nightmare shape of humanity’s enemy. “_That’s_ your friend?”, she blurts out, voice rising to a disbelieving squeak.

“This one is, yes. He doesn’t blame you for being cautious, by the way.”.

The woman stands stock still for a second, nervously chewing her lip. The stress of getting this unprepared band of vulnerable travellers this far is obvious, and she’d be a fool if she relaxed her guard the moment she saw an allegedly friendly face - and to have got them this far, she's obviously no fool. Eventually the relaxed stance of all the other guardians in their Tower insignia, and the subtly deferential pose the captain adopts, tip the balance in favour of trust and she turns to indicate the camp. “Twelve of us, including three children. There were more of us …”; she tails off, her face bleak. The implication is clear; it hasn’t been an easy journey.

Maas takes charge, stepping forward smoothly to maintain momentum. Stories can wait. The woman predictably double-takes at his tattoos, but he’s the picture of officialdom right now, and she senses she’s relieved of sole responsibility for the party at long last. The guardians muster efficiently to clear shelters, help pack up the travellers’ meagre gear, and get everybody road-ready in short order. Night is closing in and travel will be dangerous, but no more so than staying where they are through another brutally cold night, so close to Cabal patrols. Three guardians take sentry duty, scanning all channels for updates and patrolling the camp’s outer perimeter until the group is ready to move.

Maas takes Sully aside. “You’re splitting off here?”.

This was always the plan; they’re close enough to House Reborn territory now, and they don’t need anyone else with them for this errand. She nods, indicating Aratrikss ready and waiting just at the edge of the clearing, staring out at something or nothing. They’re gone into the gathering dark before anyone else in the party notices.

* * *

She looks down at the Fallen youngster on the pallet in the dim cave. They need more light, but from here she can already see he’s likely in shock, damp with sweat and alternately rigid and shuddering as waves of pain radiate from the covered leg wound. She gestures for a lamp to be brought closer, overriding the boy’s protest at the sudden brightness, and carefully removes the compress.

For a long moment she looks at what she's uncovered. There’s no visible wound any more, the skin apparently whole and undamaged, but the flesh from the knee joint down is inky black, scattered with pinpoints of bright light. At the knee the flesh is beginning to discolour, with an ugly purple tinge spreading up the limb. She draws a tense breath. “Everybody out. _Now_.”. The anxious Eliksni rapidly comply, trooping out in order of seniority until only Aratrikss is left.

“You can heal this?”.

She hesitates. “This is darkness. Taken energy. You said he’d been attacked. By what?”.

“A Taken. A knight. Stabbed him before he took it down.”.

She stays perfectly still, frowning at the wound.

“You can heal him?” he repeats, desperation creeping into his voice, This is _his_ young one, a Kell in the making he’s sure, the future pride of his house. He dreads the answer, but he has to hear it.

“I will see what I can do. You should leave.” She still hasn't moved; he tries to read her face, catch her eye for some sort of reassurance, but it's not forthcoming. He backs out of the space.

She doesn't act for a minute or two; in response to an unspoken appeal, her ghost materialises and hovers obediently. Nothing is said aloud but the two of them are debating silently, calculating risk and probability. The darkness can be removed, by the Traveller’s gift and the guardian’s will, but it has to go somewhere. Awoken carry some darkness with them too, always, it’s how they came to be, but too much will tip the balance … how much can a Guardian absorb before they, too, are corrupted?

* * *

It’s a long time before she emerges from the cave; the gathered Eliksni hovering anxiously outside instantly surge forward with questions. She opens her mouth to reply and hesitates - she's exhausted, wiped blank, as she stares across at nothing. Finally she swallows convulsively and lifts a hand in a faint gesture back at the doorway. “It’s done. Go see to him.”. And she slumps against the wall as her legs buckle, lowering herself gracelessly until she's sprawled on the ground with her back to the rough stone. The child’s carers hasten into the room, but Aratrikss hangs back a moment.

“You need care too. I will be back with you as soon as …” and he indicates the doorway, inference clear. _I must see my child first_. She nods weakly, _of course you must_, and closes her eyes.

The ghost is hovering watchfully; “You took a huge risk. I’m still not sure you’re stable. And one more hit …” he tails off, with a fretful tone. There’s no response, though he knows she's heard and understood. One more brush with darkness could be the tipping point.

* * *

Darkness surrounds her; for a moment she thinks it's the old nightmare, but no - her eyes are open and she's awake. There's softness underneath her and warmth above - one of Anssi's blankets, if she's any judge of the quality, which means she's tucked up in the family sleep-space. She takes a deep breath in and identifies the scent of Aratrikss close by, along with the faintest whiff of ether - ah, they've brought the servitor in to fortify the boy after his ordeal.

_good_

_everything is ok_

_nothing needs doing and nobody needs saving_

She sinks back into the dark and passes out again.

* * *

She wakes again, and there's light this time. She frowns; who the hell put purple lights in her bedroom ... ? Her hands come up to ward off whatever is, and the small servitor next to her head bobs hesitantly away, turning to Aratrikss in silent appeal. He nods firmly. "Continue.", and he leans over Sully, trying to see if she's focusing on him at all. "We need to fortify you, my friend. The Archon has authorised a ration of ether for you - be still and let us help you.".

Her ghost, hovering on the other side, weighs in urgently. "Relax and let them help you, guardian. I can't combat the darkness, but the ether can make you a little stronger so you can fight it yourself.". 

She frowns irritably at the fussing drone, but lets her hand fall back and nods weakly as the servitor closes in on her. She's unconscious again before it's done.

* * *

She arrives back at the Tower under cover of darkness two days later; Drifter hears about it the next morning in the usual basement gossip. The word is she looks exhausted but insists she's well enough to pick up her duties, and won't talk about the details with anyone outside her clan. He frowns; how soon before he can check in on her? This side mission has messed with the usual roster, and he knows the Vanguard won't hesitate to disrupt her schedule further if they think it'll drive a wedge between them. He's beginning to appreciate why she has trust/control issues, and why she pushes back against anyone who attempts to exert authority over her ... she's been dealing with this bullshit since she was rezzed, most likely. 

It’s quickly apparent that the titan’s friendship with the captain has unsettled a lot of people. The derisive epithet ‘_bugfucker_’ follows her around, and people go quiet when she walks past. She shrugs it off; she's been called worse things, and less accurate at that, in her time. She picks up her assigned duties and carries on as normal, waiting for things to settle down; but in the end it’s the debriefing with Zavala that finally exhausts her patience. 

He paces in front of her angrily, delivering a diatribe on trust, loyalty, the City before all, humanity above all. He brings up his dismay at her failure to observe the chain of command - everything he’s been stewing over. Ikora isn’t there to temper his sullen anger at being denied the guardian’s confidence, and if he’d hoped to find relief in finally venting the pent-up resentment he’s disappointed. She hears him out in cold silence until he finally runs down. 

Rather than an official briefing room, he’s summoned her to the small chamber he uses as a study, a spartan space with one chair at the large desk under the window. Rolled up maps and stacks of paperwork clutter the desk’s surface, half-empty mugs acting as impromptu paperweights - the space of a man to whom everything might be important and nothing can be disregarded. She has some sympathy for the challenge he faces, keeping track of all the potential threats to the city’s safety, but she can’t help comparing his disordered surroundings with Ikora’s deliberate serenity. Or the Drifter’s crowded bomb shelter; everything in there is important, everything carefully stowed, and he can put his hand to whatever he has in mind within a couple of seconds. She smiles fondly at the memory.

“Are you listening to me, Guardian?” Zavala snaps, seeing her distant expression. She makes eye contact for the first time, shrugging as if to indicate she could hardly do otherwise. He sighs, an exaggerated expression of endurance, and tries for a more conciliatory tone. “As the Titan Vanguard, my only duty is to protect this city. Humanity’s last safe home. I MUST be seen to command the respect of the hero of the Tower.”

_Command_, not _earn_, she notes. She summons her ghost to speak for her. “You have our respect.”.

He wheels around angrily at that. “_Do_ I? I’ve never heard you even speak, except through your ghost! while you converse with that … that _animal_ at our gate as if it’s nothing!”. He runs down, breathing heavily, conscious that he’s just hit probably the real sore point; jealousy. He knows the guardian speaks sometimes to Ikora, to a chosen few friends, but never to him. He’s at a loss now. As a supposedly dispassionate commander, he’s gone too far.

At his reference to Aratrikss the guardian has gone utterly, dangerously blank. The ghost vibrates anxiously as she clenches one hand slowly, relaxes it again, narrows her eyes momentarily. Then she simply turns and leaves, and Zavala doesn’t try to stop her. 

* * *

She's gone from the Tower, from Earth, before the end of the day. Drifter assumes she's off on another mission, and thinks no more of it until the whispers begin. The hero has abandoned the city, sold them all out to the Fallen … joined a rebel Vex army on Nessus … driven into the heart of the sun in a blaze of suicidal resentment, taking their poor innocent ghost with them … sworn to bring down the Vanguard using Hive sorcery … each rumour more ridiculous than the last, but the underlying fears are very real. What is certainly true is that she's cleared her vault, sold all of her Vanguard armour pieces, and left with only what she could fit into her ship. Zavala says nothing publicly, holding a grim-faced silence in the face of questions. Privately he and Ikora have had _words_, people say, though precisely what the words are they can only guess. But everyone knows he’s driven the hero away. If they turn on the city he has only himself to blame. 

Drifter catches the clan in the bar one night and tries to steer the conversation round to the situation, angling for information; he's politely blanked. They’ll discuss anything else with him, but not her. The night draws on with him still none the wiser, tense with frustration, and one by one they get up to leave, heading off for other amusements or to sleep, until he’s left with just Maas. The warlock has been quietest of all, sitting back in a corner and listening to the other conversations but hardly contributing. He seems preoccupied. Drifter tries his luck one more time. 

“You worried about ‘em?”.

Maas looks up from his almost-empty glass. “Not really.”.

“You heard from ‘em?”.

No answer; Maas holds the eye contact as if trying to decide whether to reply. The silence stretches out until he's compelled to shrug and look away. “Fine. Just tell me this; are they okay?”. 

He’s not expecting a reply this time, but he gets one. Maas shifts in his seat and leans forward for the first time since he joined the table. “If they want you to know, they’ll be in touch.”.

He looks up, startled and resentful, ready to protest … then he sees the look on the warlock’s face. Patient, understanding, sympathetic. _He knows_ … she must have told him. “Right.”. He can’t disguise his disappointment. _Guess she don't want me to know, then_. 

Maas watches him for a moment, before apparently taking pity. “Look - when they let you get close to them, you learn … not to push for more than they’re able to offer. And not to panic when they create distance. When they ask for space, it’s for good reason.”.

That doesn’t make him feel a whole lot better. Despite the times he’s spent with her, he still doesn’t know if what they are is _close_. Maybe she’s just amusing herself … he shakes the thought away. _Get a grip, fool_. The warlock is still watching him, and a faint smile is tugging at the corner of his lips. “They have two lists, you know.”.

“What?”. He’s startled by the non-sequitur.

“Two lists … one for the people they think are interesting enough to take to bed - a fair few names on that one. And one for the people they think are … um, the word they use is ’safe'. People they’ll consistently seek out to spend quality time with, because they trust them, at least a little. That’s a _very_ short list. For what it’s worth, I believe you’re on it.”.

“Why’re you tellin' me that?”.

Maas laughs. “I dunno. I guess … welcome to the club, man. It's pretty exclusive.”. He drains the last drop in his glass and gets up to leave. Drifter stays him, catching him just before he turns away.

“If you get a chance … tell ‘em I’m askin'?”. He gets a non-committal nod in return; it’ll have to do.

* * *

A week later he gets an odd anomaly on his comms panel; not a message, just a distant ping repeated at infrequent but regular intervals. He hasn’t got any scans set up in that sector so he initially thinks it’s a hostile probe of some kind, someone looking to intercept his message stream; on investigation though there’s none of the usual markers that would indicate malicious intent. It’s just a harmless blip, that seems to have no purpose beyond signalling ‘_I’m still here_.’. He decides it must be some piece of ancient dumb space junk, a buoy or relay panel that’s outlived its makers and is still circling a lonely orbit looking for someone to report back to, and forgets about it.

He sits bolt up in the middle of the night cursing himself for an idiot, and scrambles to the bridge, fumbling with the comms controls to locate the blip again; waits tensely for it to announce itself. A few minutes pass before he hears it. _Ping_. He slumps momentarily with relief. Fixing on the location of the signal, he sends an answering blip back - no information encoded, just a brief burst of static as acknowledgement. He prays he’s not sitting here making overtures to an antique satellite somewhere.

Another light suddenly flickers; incoming request to open a channel. He slams the authorisation so hard the whole panel shudders, and holds his breath as the message header resolves - just one word: '_Silver_'. He barks out a laugh and leans in, trying to decide what to say now he’s finally got some hope of being heard. He settles for “Hey. How’s things?”.

There’s a pause, and then the ghost's voice comes through.

“Hi Drifter. Things are … weird.”. 

He frowns at the use of his name. “Who’m I talkin’ to - ghost or guardian?” he demands.

“Just me, I’m afraid.” is the apologetic response. _Right_. 

“No offence, ghost, but you ain’t who I’d rather be talkin' to right now. Put ‘em on, would ya?”.

There’s a longer pause, as if the ghost is relaying this, and then he comes back. “Sorry. They’re ... not really talking to people right now. They’re barely talking to _me_. They can hear you though.”. The ghost sounds faintly plaintive; he must be concerned.

Drifter thinks about all the things he wants to say, and mentally dismisses every single one as too much of a risk - especially if either his messages or the guardian's are being intercepted, which seems likely. Finally he leans back in, focusing on keeping his tone casual and businesslike for the benefit of any eavesdroppers.

“Okay, hero, listen up. I ain’t mad, but … there’s a certain somethin' gone from my ship. You mighta seen it. A nice piece, you might recall, in _silver_ and _gold_.”. He pauses to let the emphasis sink in. “Now I ain’t saying’ you took it … but if you happen to know where it might be, well - I’d appreciate seein’ it back in its usual place one o’ these days.”. He sits back bleakly and waits for a response; staring at the wall opposite while the silent seconds tick by.

Finally the ghost comes through again. “Uh … yes. Message received, I’d say.”. He sounds brighter, as if he's relieved. That’s all there is before the transmission cuts off; Drifter is left listening to white noise. He doesn’t care. She's out there somewhere, she's alive, and he’s spoken to her. It’s enough for now.

* * *

The ghost studies his silent guardian, sitting curled up in the narrow berth at the back of the tiny ship. They've been there for a two days, tangled up in the thin blankets and alternately dozing or staring blankly at the wall. Their eyes are closed now, and they haven't spoken to him since they directed him to set up the outbound beacon, but he notes the almost imperceptible frown and the gradual relaxation in their shoulders and hands as they absorb the Drifter’s words. He’s been in deep distress himself the last few days, unable to help them except by following their terse orders, and he was close to despair. Now, he reflects, he still doesn’t know what to do - but chances are they aren't entirely adrift. He settles down to watch and wait. 


	18. Scout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sully returns and Drifter finally gets to make that job offer; not a moment too soon, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been wracking my brains to come up with a way to insert flashbacks and memories for Sully's backstory ... then I remembered what game we all play, duh. I hope you all like the lore-tab format :) Maybe one of these days I'll go back and add proper graphics and everything.

* * *

* * *

**THE SCOUT**

**A small jadeite disc carved with a relief of a stylised blade crossed with a spanner, used as a playing piece in the Eliksni strategy board game ‘Kells’. The scout is a crucial piece in any player’s arsenal, being able to move in any direction and take actions associated with all classes.**

* * *

****They're frozen in the darkness; they can’t move, they _daren’t_ move, and even if they don’t move surely the pounding of their heart will give them away.

_“Aw, the freak got away.”._

_"Didn't think it could run that fast, did you?”._

_"It’ll be back home by now, complaining to its mommy.”._

They know their tormentors won't have gone far; they’ve played this agonising game enough times to know they’ll be waiting nearby, ready with stones and clods of mud to throw.

_“Maybe the freak fell in a sinkhole down there.”_

_“Who cares? Let’s get back.”._

They stay perfectly still; they fell for that trick one time before. Not this time. 

_joke’s on you, slug_

_nobody cares; and we gave up complaining years ago_

They rest their head back on the rough stone and blink back furious tears. 

_we will not cry over this_

They turn and feel the surface behind them, searching for the markings that point to the _other_ tunnel, the one they’ve been told never to explore, the one people say leads towards where the monsters live. They know that’s wrong though; the real monsters are outside the cave mouth with rocks in their hands, waiting to stone a child for the crime of being different.

_if alone in the dark is where we're safe, then alone in the dark is where we'll stay_

The tunnel slopes gently downward as they follow it; they keep one hand flat on the right hand wall and take every right turn they come to, just like the mining sim taught them. So much for it being a pointless game that would never be any use … they smile humourlessly in the dark as they recall that the sim also provides an unlimited inventory of torches, tools and rations - could really do with that right now. Lunch was a long time ago, and there’ll be no dinner waiting for them when they get back. Just cold silence and empty dishes.

The smile fades. It’s been a while, and they’re just going deeper and deeper, no sign of heading back up or finding a light source. Time to go back? They halt to get their bearings.

Suddenly a light flares to their right, and the monster steps out of the solid stone just beside them roaring a challenge that reverberates off the tunnel walls. It’s holding a massive blaster in two of its four hands, and a cruel-looking blade in a third. They shrink back instinctively, eyes round with terror in their pale face, and go perfectly still.

The monster grunts in surprise and lowers the blade, then kneels down and rumbles quietly; it sounds almost like a laugh, but not a cruel one. Do monsters laugh? Apparently they do, or at least this one does.

It rumbles again, and the sound forms into words in their head.

_You’re a long way from where you should be. Be calm, small one. We don’t shoot children. _

They frown in concentration - they _know_ this one, it’s in the language sim, one of the ‘dead’ languages they said no sentient races spoke any more, they said it wouldn’t be needed, _they lied_… 

“I’m right where I should be. I wanted to know if the monsters were real, and I found you.”. 

The monster blinks in surprise. _Name yourself, small one._

The child considers for a second. “Scout.”.

_That is your name?_

“It’s the name I choose.”. 

_Then it is your name. Welcome, Scout._

* * *

* * *

Drifter returns to the Derelict late at night, transporting crates of machine parts he’s picked up in the scrap bazaar - possibly junk, possibly treasure, who knows? Well worth the pittance he paid for them either way, and he stows them temporarily in a corner intending to sort through them later. For now he needs a drink, and a few hours sleep if he can get it. The past few days have been fraught with activity, making final arrangements for his out-system expedition, and he’s buzzing with stress pretty much constantly. It doesn't help that he’s heard nothing more from Sully, though the blip is still coming in at regular intervals; he supposes it’s her way of saying _I’m still here, don’t worry_ … but he frets nonetheless. There’s no question she can take care of herself; it’s a purely selfish itch, wanting her to be next to him regardless of whatever else she’s going through.

He pours a generous glassful of whisky for himself, sitting at the comm to check in case any new intel has come in; nope, nothing. More or less everything's in place, everybody briefed and ready to go when he gives the word ... everyone except her, wherever she is. _One more day_, he tells himself. _One more day and then we head off, with or without her_. He drains his glass and heads to bed, frowning as his eyes adjust to the low light inside the crawlspace. What's that in the corner? … _wait a minute_ ...

Fast asleep in the far corner of the pillow fort, curled up small with the covers pulled up to her neck against the creeping cold, is the silver titan. He steps in hesitantly, dropping carefully to his knees, and leans over her to look more closely. She's maybe a little paler than usual, though it’s hard to see clearly in the dim light; faint violet shadows under her eyes hint at recent stresses. But her face is relaxed, peaceful as a sleeping child wrapped up in a safe place without a care in the world. He’s forcibly reminded of the age gap between them; if he were a better person, he’d probably be disgusted with himself. He’s no doubt other people would have plenty to say, but that’s their problem.

He lowers himself next to her, scooting in as close as he can above the covers, and drapes a careful arm across her flank as she stirs slightly; with his lips just behind her ear he murmurs “Hmmm, what’s this? Somebody’s been sleepin’ in my bed …”. That raises a sleepy chuckle as she turns to face him, fumbling with the blankets to free her arms. He wraps her up and buries his face in her hair for a second, breathing in her scent; then he pulls back to get a better look at her face. “Should’ve told me you were comin’ back, I’d’ve been here. You okay?”.

“I will be.”. She smiles faintly. "I've missed my pillow fort though.”.

“Just the pillow fort? Aw, there I was thinkin’ you came back to see me.”.

For answer she tangles her fingers in his hair and pulls him close, pressing her body against his; he blinks as he realises she’s completely bare under those blankets, and neglected parts of him predictably react. He hesitates for barely a second, and then _aw, to hell with it_ kisses her, gathering her against him and rolling over so she straddles him, trailing blankets as she goes. She hums in appreciation as he strokes her bare skin, and he goes to slide off his gauntlets.

“No, leave them on.”. Her voice is warm and breathless, and his skin tingles at the promise in it. He complies hesitantly, moving his gloved hands up and down her body. He’s impatient to feel her, but he relishes the sounds she's making as his armoured fingertips drag across her skin. “_Fuck_.” he whispers, and turns her again so he’s hovering above her, leaning heavily on his elbows as he catches his breath. “You wanna do it like this? That’s cruel, silver girl. I don’t get to feel ya.”.

She grasps the fabric of his sleeves. “Like this. Please.”. That last is somewhere between a whisper and a cry, and she shivers as he instantly obeys, palming down her front. 

“Yes, ma’am… anything you say.”.

He presses her down against the cushions and sets to work, stimulating her until she's trembling on the edge of release then bringing her back down again. She's pliant but not passive; letting him move her for access to the parts he wants to tease, encouraging him with breathless moans and using her strength to brace against him, chasing sensation. It’s the most vocal she’s ever been for him, and he’s captivated by the study of drawing sounds from her; learning how to draw out his favourite reactions by careful changes in pressure and texture. 

He covers her with his clothed body, rubbing against her, then moves down to take her nipple into his mouth, rolling it with his tongue; as he moves his belt buckle scores lightly against her clit, and she cries out. He raises his head, keeping up the motion, and murmurs; “Sing out, silver girl - let me hear ya. You like that?”. 

“_Fuck_ yes.” she nods, teeth gritted, then throws her head back and cries out “ … oh! fuck yes _yes yes_…” as the cold steel brings her close to the brink yet again. He ducks down and teases the other nipple now, grazing it lightly with his teeth and then sucking gently. She’s a mess, pleading, barely coherent as she writhes underneath him.

He feels like he could come from her voice alone - but he wants to feel her; _needs_ to, after so long without her touch. He lifts her up and pushes her roughly against the bulkhead, making her turn and kneel up so she's facing away from him. One arm wrapped around her waist pulls her sharply back against him, and she shivers as his pauldron’s blunt spikes dig into her shoulder blades. His other hand is fumbling to release his cock, gloved fingers fighting clumsily with multiple layers and fastenings. As soon as it’s free he braces and lines up, driving into her with a muffled “_fuck yeah_ …”. 

He breathes hard for a few seconds, clenching his hands on her hips and barely moving, teasing her with the slightest of strokes as she begs brokenly for more; then he moves his hands up to her breasts, teasing the nipples now with the rough fabric covering his fingertips. Her arm shoots out to brace against the metal in front of her, and her other hand grips his sleeve as her head lolls back on his shoulder. Her breathing is harsh and uneven as she hovers on the edge of bliss; he can feel her legs trembling, and he’s not much better. 

“You like that, hmmm?” he whispers, “tell me how much you like it, darlin’. Lemme hear ya.”. 

“Yes … oh god that’s s-so good … “ is all she manages before she dissolves into another wordless moan and pushes back hungrily against him. He shudders blissfully; no more teasing. He grips her waist, adjusts the set of his legs to keep his balance, and starts to move a little more while he murmurs into her ear; how good this feels, how good she sounds, how much he wants her, interspersed with forceful open-mouthed kisses to her neck and shoulder, just grazing her skin with his teeth. He wants to mark her up so badly, give her something to remind her of him in the morning, but he stops short - for now. His restraint pays off; the perfect balance of rough cloth / cold metal / gentle touches brings her to the brink and keeps her helplessly there, whimpering with need.

He knows he’s not far off now; the way she sounds and feels against him is driving him crazy, even through all the layers. He buries his face in her neck, muffling a groan, and runs a gloved hand down her front to just swipe over her clit … and that’s it, her core clenches hard around his cock as she screams wordlessly over and over again in time with his thrusts. It sounds like murder, desperation, holy ecstasy … it’s the most beautiful sound he ever heard, and he shivers from head to toe.

He grits his teeth and pounds into her, bracing himself with a hand covering hers on the bulkhead, and empties himself seconds later with an ecstatic shout. He drives in deep with his arm wrapped tight around her and they just hang there together, breathing hard in time with each other until he reluctantly pulls out and gathers her against him, collapsing on the cushions. 

“Welcome back.” he wheezes. She chuckles weakly against his chest and he wraps her tightly in his arms, burying his face in her hair and breathing her in. It’s a precious moment of closeness, something he’d sworn years ago not to hanker after, but all bets are off where she’s concerned. Finally, she’s back where she should be, and he’s determined to savour every second.

Eventually he pulls away and sits up to remove his armour and outerwear, patiently stacking everything next to him. He’s just got down to his pants and undershirt when there’s a pointed cough from the direction of the bridge. He tenses; it sounds like the rookie, and no-one else can get on board without triggering alarms, but still - an unwelcome interruption. He glances a silent apology at the guardian and levers himself to his feet, swinging through the hatch.

“Kinda busy.”. He greets the kid with a terse nod.

“Yeah, uh … I heard.” The little bastard’s smirking. “I guess she’s real after all.”. Drifter doesn’t smile; _get to the point, kid_. The rookie sighs and makes himself comfortable in one of the chairs. “We need to talk. Can you … ?” and he glances to the hatch, indicating maybe the Drifter’s guest should leave.

_Fuck, no_. Drifter shakes his head firmly. “Nah. I paid for the whole night, I’m gettin’ my money’s worth.” He offers up a silent apology to the titan, hoping she appreciates the subterfuge. “Get on with it, kid. Can’t keep a lady waitin’.”. He steps back to pull the hatch to, sees her stifling a laugh behind her hand, and winks. “Take a breather, darlin’ - I’ll be right back.” 

The rookie whistles. “All night? Hope she’s worth it.” Drifter smirks but pointedly doesn’t respond. “Okay. You need to know this … I heard the psycho is back. That titan who nearly shish-kebabbed your eyeball.”. He sniggers briefly. "The bugfucker.”.

Drifter shifts uneasily. “You’ve seen ‘em?”.

“No, but I hear things. I wanted to make sure you knew, in case you plan to piss them off again. I was thinking I could sell tickets.”.

He considers the kid for a moment. He’s learning fast, no question, but there are some subtleties that he’s slow to grasp. He mulls over how much he should share … hell, he's running out of time for beating around this particular bush. “I aim to offer ‘em a job, if that’s what you mean.”.

It doesn't get the reaction he was expecting; the kid just frowns slightly. “You trust them?”.

“Naw, I don't trust 'em - it's way too soon for that. They scare the crap outta me. But they got skills I can use - _we_ can use - and I don’t want anyone else gettin’ there first and usin’ them against us.”. That gets a nod; ok, good, he’s making sense. He spreads his hands; “Is that all?”, and his eyes flick back to the hatch, impatient to return.

The kid takes the hint and stands up; “I guess.” he sighs. “Have fun.”.

Drifter waits tensely until he hears the transmat activate, then calls up his ghost to lock things down and heads back to bed via the galley, grabbing a bottle and two glasses on the way. He pours two shots, handing her one, then gestures in the direction of the bridge. “You heard all that?”. It’s not exactly a question, she could hardly have avoided hearing, and she tilts her head in confirmation. He settles down facing her, searching her face for some reaction. “Does it bother you?”.

She takes a sip of her drink and smiles wryly. “What, that you don’t trust me? No. I can’t think of any reason why you should. I don’t entirely trust you either, if it helps.”. She calmly takes a second sip, rolling the whisky on her tongue appreciatively, and he nods ruefully.

“I get it; you don’t trust easily. Me neither. We can work on that.”.

He stares down at his hands, suddenly aware of how dangerously close he’s let her get without being sure of where they stand. How little he even knows about her. So much he doesn't know about her ... might never know.

"Guess I shouldn't ask where you've been all this time.".

When he looks up she's assessing him with a measuring stare. "Are you curious?".

"A little." he admits aloud. _Like crazy_, he adds silently to himself.

"Then ask.". 

It's a genuine invitation, but still he hesitates .. she smiles and takes pity. "I went around a few places; then checked in with Trix. That's where I was last.".

"Your Fallen captain friend, huh … you trust him?”.

“Yes.”. No hesitation - he’s momentarily flummoxed.

“Just like that?”. He wants to say, _what’s he got that I don’t?_ Hm, maybe rephrase that … he goes instead with “How come?”. She sobers as she considers for a second.

“We have a lot of history. I’ve ... kissed his scars; held his children. Sat vigil with him while he mourned. Fought alongside him.” She pauses, searching for the definition she needs. “I know what he cares about. I know he cares about _me_. With you, I don’t have that. You don’t share yourself.”.

He leans back and takes that all in in silence. It’s an absolutely fair assessment, he knows. He doesn’t like it, but it’s not wrong. He stares bleakly at the ceiling.

“Yeah. I wish I could tell ya we’d get to that, but …” he waves a hand that indicates the state of everything in general, and she laughs. “I know. It doesn’t matter right now.”.

“If it comes to that, I guess I don’t know what you care about either. Never could work out what makes you tick.”.

“Really?”. She tilts her head curiously. “I’ve never hidden it. I care about people. Individuals. They’re the only thing really worth caring about, in the end, don’t you think? Things break and empires fall, big ideas come and go … but there will always be people. People matter more than things.”.

_I’m a damn fool_. How did he never think of that? All that time he spent trying to establish her levers, all the hints she’s dropped - and the outright truths she’s shared - and he’d never thought it might be that simple. It makes perfect sense though; the loyalty she seems to inspire is a direct consequence of her authenticity, her honesty, and the lengths she’ll go to for the people who need her. It’s exactly why he wants her, after all.

“Still want to offer me a job?”.

He studies his glass then drains the contents in one. “Yeah. I want you on my crew. Have done from the start.”. There; he finally told her the truth. He keeps his eyes fixed on his empty glass as she watches him.

“Without trust, without understanding, all that time ago ... you decided you wanted me standing next to you when things got bad?”. She sounds like she’s half-teasing, half-serious, and he sighs.

“Yeah, sounds dumb when ya say it like that. Y'know, I thought it’d be simple - I’d offer you enough glimmer to make you come work for me, and you’d do what I told you to do.”. There’s silence from her, and he searches for some way to make it make sense. “It ain't like that any more. I need you. If I thought you might be against me … I can't deal with that. I need you with me.”. More truth … might just become a habit.

She hasn’t looked away from his face, watching the subtle changes of expression that he can’t quite hide - there it is again, that suggestion of vulnerability, waiting to be hurt and ready to turn it off with a joke and the pretence that it never really mattered. She wonders, not for the first time, just who fucked him up so comprehensively - and whether they’re still around. For now though, he needs an answer.

“As it turns out, I happen to be in the market for job offers. I’m in.”.

That seems a little too easy; he fixes her with a suspicious stare, brows drawn together. “Just like that? You don’t even know what I need you for.”.

That draws a laugh from her. “I know what I’m good at; that’s what you’ll get. Whether it’s what you wanted … well, I’m sure it’ll work out.”. She drains her glass and sets it out of the way, leaning back and arranging herself comfortably on the cushions again. Settling back with a contented sigh she lets her gaze wander over him and wrinkles her nose in dissatisfaction.

“You’re too far away. Come here.”.

He gives up trying to work out the angles; she has that effect on him. Instead he discards his own empty glass and moves slowly over her; holding eye contact as he runs his hands up her body and concentrates on showing her just how much he’s missed her.

* * *

Morning rolls around all too fast, no need to get up just yet though ... he’s beyond comfortable, wrapped in the cocoon of blankets and pressed against something warm and yielding. He shifts his head, shaking off sleep, trying to identify what’s odd. Next to him, the guardian’s breathing changes as she starts to wake, and he reflexively tightens his grip, breathing her in. _That feels so good_… his eyes spring open … _whoa, she's still here_. An odd sensation washes over him as he holds her, and it takes a while to name it; _contentment. Ain't seen you in a while_. It’s swiftly followed by a lurch in the pit of his stomach; fear. What feels good can turn bad, when it’s taken away. He dismisses his paranoia, well-founded though it may be, and nuzzles her neck gently. _Seize the moment_, he thinks, smiling as he presses his morning wood against her and feels her reach back for him.

It’s everything he’d hoped, having her still be next to him like this. She moulds herself to him as he kisses her, warm hands running down his flank and pulling him close, sleepy murmurs of satisfaction pulled from her when he touches her in just the right way. It wouldn’t be the most energetic encounter they ever had - it’s sleepy, sloppy, fumbling morning sex; but it goes firmly to the top of his favourites list for the way she looks right now. _Happy_. That’s what it is, she's happy to be with him, happy to be here doing this with him, happy to have spent a night beside him, no stress remaining in her face as she moves against him and responds to his touch. A memory worth holding on to.


	19. Silvertongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sully joins Drifter and his rookie partner for their expedition out of the system.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The nickname 'Massimon' used in this chapter is a variation on Maximon, a Mayan trickster god described as 'aligned to both light and dark' and apparently a bit of a womaniser. I imagine with all those qualities he'd also need to be something of a smooth talker :)
> 
> As promised, Drifter's rookie partner gets a name and more lines. He's a good kid really, once he gets past his prejudices. 
> 
> TW for violence, passing mentions of rape and past abuse.

* * *

* * *

**MEETING TRANSCRIPT: ****DUTY REASSIGNMENT HEARING - INFORMAL**

**Present: Commander Cpt. Majid (SM), Supervisor Lt. Sullivan (AS).**

_ **Subject: Candidate XB3-29 Alpha** _

_ **Gender: Undefined** _

_ **Age: Approx 19 [1]** _

_ **Primary education: Unknown [2]** _

_ **Secondary education: Unknown [3]** _

_ **Known skills: See appendices for full list [4] [5] [6]** _

_ **Known associations: None** _

* * *

_[SM]: So, you want this one reassigned. They’re giving you trouble?_

_[AS]: Ah. I take it you didn’t look past the first page._

_[SM]: They’re an uneducated runaway with a violent temper and an attitude problem, and I have a training vessel to run; how about you talk me through which bits of the, ah, ten pages I have here you think will change my mind?_

_[AS]: The fact that it’s ten pages should have alerted you, but never mind. Start with page three, which explains why they have no formal education record._

_[SM]: Okay, let’s see - sure, 'home schooled' … home schooled from age three by the scientific faculty at a research outpost? Really?_

_[AS]: Exactly. I’d say ‘unschooled’ rather than home-schooled; the parents were busy with research, so they were left to learn whatever they felt was interesting. Unrestricted access to the faculty systems. Which leads me to Appendix Two - that’s the list of languages they currently speak._

_[SM]: What the hell? There are … twenty-seven entries here. They speak Eliksni? How the hell did that happen?_

_[AS]: Ask them yourself. It’s about time you paid attention to the person rather than the paperwork. I heard you were looking for candidates for the new Colony Advance Scout program; if you don’t secure them for that immediately I think you’ll be making a huge mistake._

_[SM]: Not so fast; what about the psych assessment? Let’s see now … emotional avoidance, failure to form attachments, lack of regard for rules and societal structures ... So let me see if I have this straight; you want me to progress an antisocial misfit to one of the most coveted new career pathways in the service, ahead of I don’t know how many more evidentially qualified candidates?_

_[AS]: Commander, we both know if they’d come through the usual education system and presented with those exact same attributes they’d have been fast-tracked to the Leadership pathway in an instant - that whole sector of the assessment wheel is called the Psychopath Quadrant for a reason, you know? I’ve checked with Psych, and they agree - halfway down page seven, if you’re interested. They’re emotionally avoidant due to early childhood neglect, that’s all, and they don’t exhibit any destructive behaviours._

_[SM]: Hm. What about that incident with their room-mate last month? I paid attention to that, you’d better believe. The boy’s arm was broken in three places, Alek!_

_[AS]: If I may speak freely … if he’d climbed into my bunk and tried to rape me while I was sleeping, I’d have broken a lot more than his arm._

_[SM]: I … see. That part of the story didn’t reach me._

_[AS]: I’ll thought not; that's why I asked for this meeting._

_[SM]: Right. Right, leave this with me. I’ll have a decision for them by the end of the day._

* * *

* * *

The Tower is abuzz, officially and otherwise. The Drifter has disappeared, Gambit is cancelled indefinitely, and the Derelict was last seen heading to the outer reaches of the system … nobody knows anything, but everybody’s heard something; the rumour mill is roaring. The Vanguard and their networks of spies are frantically casting as far out as they can reach, but the renegade has simply vanished.

The subject of all this speculation is currently heading back to his ship; not the Derelict, which he’s left securely hidden in an uninteresting asteroid belt in an obscure corner at the edge of the system, but another long-haul vessel he acquired some time ago through a convoluted chain of transfers to hide his involvement. It looks a mess, but he’s spent some time - and some glimmer - souping it up to a capacity that belies its tattered appearance. It’s smaller than the Derelict, more manoeuvrable and significantly faster, and it has some … heh, _modifications_ that will help him slip around unnoticed. He grins wolfishly as he approaches the bay; he hasn’t lost his kit bash touch.

As he steps aboard the door scanner flags up an authorised admittance from a little while earlier, and he his heart skips as he turns on to the bridge and looks across at the slight figure in the command chair. She's utterly relaxed, feet up on the console and nursing a fresh cup of coffee, staring out at the view of the built-up planetoid they’re in orbit around.

“Make yourself at home, why don’tcha.” he greets her, and she laughs, raising the cup at him in a toast. “See you found your way alright.” She shrugs; _of course_. He wonders afresh at how much work that simple gesture does, and stops in front of her with a foolish grin to take in the welcome sight of her. He’s been looking forward to getting her back with him … but there’s no time for small talk right now, much less anything else - dammit, if he'd only come back an hour earlier it might have been a different story; as it is he just has time to hastily show her the sleeping quarters, housing three tiny cabin pods for officers and one decent-sized crew dorm, and she stows her gear in one of the empty pods while he lays in coordinates.

Just in time; the rookie comes aboard just as she comes back and sits down, taking the same chair as before and reclaiming her coffee cup. He pulls up short as he sees her already there. “I thought it was gonna be just you and me.”, he complains. He sounds like a child denied a promised treat, and Drifter sees her smirk into her cup. 

“I told you I’d make ‘em an offer, kid. They accepted. That’s all.”. He gestures at the rookie. “Sully, this is Jacob, my business partner. Jacob, this is Sully, my … eh, I don’t even know what they are right now, but we need ‘em. You’ll see why soon enough.”. He turns away with a _discussion-over_ gesture and punches in the final figures for their destination so they can get underway.

The rookie sulks for what must be several hours; he’s short with Drifter, yes/no answers and minimal sentences only when absolutely necessary, and he ignores Sully altogether. She doesn’t bother to hide her amusement at his childishness. It’s going to be an awkward first few days, Drifter realises, but it’ll resolve itself one way or another - he hopes. As a distraction tactic he digs out the mixed scrap crates he brought across from the Derelict, full of god knows what, and sets them both to work sorting through the parts looking for stuff he can either use or sell. _Keep ‘em busy_, he decides; if nothing else they’ll be out of his hair. He puts his feet up on the comm and settles back for a power nap, keeping an ear cocked in case they decide to start making conversation.

An hour passes without a word being exchanged, as far as he’s been able to hear; he opens one eye and squints across at the two of them, still working in silence at either end of the long mess table. They each have a heap of recognisable parts and a bin of scrap, and she seems to have salvaged most of a long-barrelled sniper rifle; periodically she finds another piece and adds it to a separate pile to one side. He gets up to inspect the find, checking the maker’s mark and identifying the model. “Nice.” he approves, pursing his lips. “Antique, but a good piece in its day. You plannin’ to fix it up?”. She nods slightly without looking up, and Jacob snorts derisively. Drifter looks at him sharply.

“Somethin’ to say?”.

“He’ll never get that piece of crap working.”.

He glares at the placid titan, and Drifter realises the rookie is reading her as male, despite the absence of the heavy armour that usually disguises her shape. _Hoo boy. Can’t wait to be in the room when he hears 'em speak_. He jerks his head at her, teasing. “You gonna let him talk to you like that?”. She tilts her head noncommittally and carries on sorting parts, as if the boy’s opinion is irrelevant.

“Fuck off, psycho,”, Jacob snarls. “Drifter may think you’re worth having around, but as far as I’m concerned you’re deadweight.”. Her smile broadens but she doesn’t respond, and Drifter sighs exaggeratedly.

“Okay, let’s get somethin’ straight. You may not like 'em, but you’re on my crew now - that means no infightin’. Got it?”. Dead silence; he tries again. “Kid, I picked you cuz I need someone who can keep a cool head. You gonna let me down? Trust me, you _don’t _wanna be on the wrong side of this one.”.

Jacob frowns furiously at that. “You think I’m scared of him?”.

“I think if you ain’t, you should be.”. Irritation boils over; this must be the first time the boy hasn't taken a hint, and it has to be for this? He throws up his hands in exasperation. "Okay, fine - you wanna fight, go fight. Get it out of yer system.". He catches Sully's eye for a second with a faint question, and she returns an equally faint shrug. "Looks like you're on. Don't say I didn't warn ya.".

"Bullshit,”, Jacob spits as he pushes back angrily from the table. “Let's go, best of three - hand to hand, no weapons, no light, no ghosts. No interfering …”, aside to Drifter. "Come and get your ass kicked, bugfucker.”. She grins at that, and stands up to move to a clear part of the room. As she shucks off her boots and strips off her loose hooded top Jacob finally takes in her shape. “He's a girl?” he blurts. Nobody responds; she stands perfectly still and waits. He looks at the Drifter in mute appeal and gets a bland poker face in return. _You’re on your own, kid_.

“Fine.”, he snaps, and turns back to Sully, trying to read her stance and finally making a cautious approach. As he gets within a few feet he lowers his head and charges … and ends up sprawling on the floor behind where she was standing until a split second before. She pulls a disappointed face; _really? is that the best you can do? _before moving to face him again.

Jacob pulls himself back up, fists clenched, and falls now into a proper fighting stance. His next attack is more considered and he makes contact, hurling her to the floor. Except that she rolls smoothly, using his momentum to make the turn, and he ends up with her full weight on him, her knee crushing his throat. He glares at her, trying unsuccessfully several times to unseat her, before smacking the floor three times in surrender. She lets him up and stands back, and he sits up coughing and holding his neck. “_Fuck_!”.

Technically that's two out of three, and she's ready to be done if he wants, but she doesn't turn her back on him. Just as well, as he levers himself up quickly and goes again. This time he goes for the chest, and she goes down with him on top of her. He snarls in triumph and makes a scientific move, grabbing the arm grasping for his throat and twisting it sharply in entirely the wrong direction. There’s an audible sound of gristle, and the arm goes limp - she doesn’t make a sound, but it’s obvious; that’s a dislocated shoulder at the very least. Jacob stands up slowly, breathing hard with the effort but openly gloating.

“Are we done?”, he sneers. “Need your ghost now?”. She doesn’t answer as she gets slowly to her feet, straightening up with a slight wince. Then she motions him to stand out of the way. “What?”, he snaps, stepping hastily back as she walks towards him. She veers off as she gets close, however, holding her bad arm at an odd angle supported by the other, and suddenly _slams_ the injured shoulder into the wall with a muffled hiss of pain. Drifter lets out a cackle of laughter - _medic on the field!_ \- she's popped the joint back in, just like that. Must've hurt like hell. She raises the arm and rotates the joint a couple of times, grimacing but apparently satisfied with its functionality for now.

What happens next, Drifter isn’t sure if he actually believes even if he saw the whole thing. She steps swiftly up beside the still-gaping rookie and drives her elbow into his face; turns to punch him in the gut; turns again grabbing his shoulder as he’s doubled over, and kicks him sharply in the knee. Drifter winces in sympathy at the crunching sound, and moves half a pace closer in case he needs to intervene. _No interfering, bullshit - I didn’t think she’d kill him_ … Jacob goes down heavily with a yelp, landing on his face, and she lands her full weight on the middle of his back before he has time to recover. There’s a crackle that may or may not have been a rib or two breaking, and a despairing ‘oof’ from the boy as his breath is forced out of him. She sits for a fraction of a second, adjusting her weight to make sure his arms are pinned; then she falls forward, wraps her arms around his head and _twists_.

He screams just before his neck reaches the point of snapping, and Drifter finally intervenes. “That’s enough!”. She obediently stops the sideways pressure, but doesn't let go. Drifter can just see her face; she looks utterly, eerily calm, poised on the point of deliberate murder, and he’s reminded abruptly that even her friends shy away from crossing her. He summons an authoritative tone, hoping like hell it’ll work. “Hey! I’m gonna need him with his head still attached, hero.”. She waits a beat more then releases her hold and stands up, shaking the tension out of her arms and sitting back down at the table where she calmly picks up a piece of metal, turns it over, and adds it to a pile, as if her task had never been interrupted.

Jacob rolls over slowly, taking a shuddering breath, and conjures his ghost to heal him. “She really is a fucking psycho.”, he says bitterly, as the drone casts its light over his injuries.

Drifter shakes his head. “They.”.

“What?”.

“_They_, not she. And they do whatever they have to, is all. You're the one who wouldn't stop comin'.".

Jacob stares sullenly down at the floor, and Drifter's tone gets colder. "Kid, you learned somethin' today; they could rip your head off if they felt like it, and they'll stop if I ask 'em to. Piss ‘em off again, and I won’t stop ‘em.”.

Sully catches his eye with a faint smile - whether at the pronoun correction, the assessment or the threat he’s not sure - and drops another part on the pile.

* * *

Jacob is more cautious after that; no more sneering taunts. For her part Sully treats him with the same calm indifference as before - but Drifter is more unsettled than he'll openly admit by the boy's antipathy to her. He needs them to gel, or he’ll have to put one or other of them off at the next stop, and _dammit_ \- it’ll have to be her. He’s made no promises to her, no contract or partnership; and besides, she'll be fine without him. True as that is, the thought makes him tense with misery. He elects himself to first watch and directs them both to turn in early; he needs the thinking time.

Four hours of deep thought later, he's no closer to a solution; all he knows is he needs them both, and there's no easy answer - especially as tired as he is. He taps on her pod door to wake her so she can take the second watch and goes to refresh the coffee pot. She emerges with a bleary morning face, shrugging on her shirt, and heads straight for the counter.

“How’s the shoulder?”, he queries as she pours herself a cup.

“It's fine. Go get some sleep.”.

He hesitates for a second, wondering if they should talk, but she's already turned her back.

* * *

When he wakes a few hours later Jacob is already up and drinking coffee, warily watching the titan from the other end of the table. She's apparently studying a datapad; looks like detailed schematics for a sniper - he realises it must be for that gun she salvaged, and comes closer to read over her shoulder.

“Got yourself a project.”, he observes.

She nods, tapping a particular section that details the dimensions of the firing pin. “Pin's rusted through. I can make a new one, though.”.

Jacob frowns at the sound of her voice, this evidently being the first time he’s actually heard it. He's still reading her as male, reinforced by the force of the smackdown he received the day before, and he’s having trouble with her gender-fluidity. But he’s intrigued by the rifle project; “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that done from scratch. When you do … can I watch?”.

She nods assent without looking up and Drifter snorts. “Good to see you two gettin’ along finally.”. Jacob gives him the finger, and he chuckles evilly as he grabs himself some coffee. Looks like it might all work out after all.

After breakfast they set up a workshop of sorts in one of the alcoves off the hold; she's explored the dark cubby-holes in the engine room and triumphantly unearthed a small bench-top lathe and set of chisels evidently left behind by a ship's engineer with a taste for metalworking - or a need to make their own spare parts to keep ancient engines running, more likely. Either way, it's been well-used but well-kept, and there's no problem with getting it working; meanwhile Jacob shows willing by dragging in the scrap metal bins and sorting through for suitable pieces of steel. Drifter’s intrigued by her quiet competence as she reviews his finds and selects three pieces, testing each for soundness before working one up into a new firing pin. He recalls her clan saying she fixed up old weapons, but he’d not seen any evidence before now of just how practiced she must be - and this is Dark Age skill level, what you get when you have no spares, no stores, and no hope of buying a new weapon to replace the one that broke.

“Where’d ya learn that?” he asks. 

She responds absently; “Don’t remember.”.

It sounds like a lie, although it shouldn’t; every guardian has things they know without knowing why or where from, things that have to have come from their prior lives pre-resurrection. He adds it to the mental list of things about her that he's desperate to know, and resigns himself to the fact that he'll probably never find out.

The new piece is laid to one side with the rest of the gun parts, spread out for cleaning and reassembly. She unhurriedly turns two more to the same spec and switches off the lathe, stretching out her arms to get rid of the knots. He watches the muscles ripple in her shoulders and back, and looks away hastily. _Down, boy. This is no time to get horny_.

* * *

There are two more days of travel to their first stop, and she spends every spare hour stripping down each part of the firing mechanism and meticulously restoring any she finds to be less than perfect. Jacob watches every step in respectful silence, his fascination tinged with caution. She hasn’t shown any signs of aggression towards him since their fight, not even mild dislike, but … that’s just it. There’s nothing, neither approval nor disdain. He’s simply part of the scenery, and she effortlessly avoids interacting with him. Drifter’s reminded of the way she used to blank him, back when he was first trying to get under her skin, and he sighs. Should he give the kid some tips? Probably not; he has a feeling she’ll warm to Jacob in her own way, or not at all, and he has nothing relevant to suggest.

She works fast. By the end of the second day the weapon is reassembled, all parts sliding smoothly into place and the mechanism clicking together perfectly, and she breaks into a faint smile of satisfaction as she hefts the gun and smooths her hand over the sheen of the barrel. It’s incongruously sensual, the way she handles it; Drifter coughs and stands up abruptly at the sight, reminded he hasn’t been able to get her alone for several weeks. Three nights now he's spent lying on the wrong side of a metal wall, knowing she's only a few feet away, and he's mentally calculating schemes to get her alone for just a little while ... 

Business comes first though. Their destination is a tiny settlement on Ceres; a huddle of houses with off-white plaster walls hugging three sides of a central square, with a tavern taking up the whole of the fourth side. Columns run along the whole frontage, supporting a long balcony which shades the ground floor windows and the entrance from the searing sun. It’s mid-afternoon local time as they arrive and there are a few patrons lounging in the welcome shade who watch the trio with interest as they approach the wide double doors. Sully’s been quiet since Drifter announced where they were stopping, and now she's looking up at the doors with a faint smile.

“You been here before?” Drifter asks; she says nothing, but her grin broadens. 

As they step through the door a stocky dark-haired young man behind the bar looks up, smiling uncertainly at the strangers; with a bartender’s instincts he reaches down three shot glasses and hovers with his hand near the bottles of spirits, but as he sees Sully step up behind Drifter his face splits into a savage smile. “_You!_” he crows. “Ho, you’re in big trouble, pal!”. Drifter lays his hand on his gun in alarm, but Sully gestures across at him to relax. They watch as the bartender opens the door to the back, presumably a kitchen area, and yells “Tia! Come see who just waltzed back in here!”. He faces the visitors again with a smug grin, and dramatically counts off on his fingers as impatient footsteps approach.

A girl slams through the door; there's a strong family resemblance between her and the bartender - but she’s some order of magnitude more attractive, Drifter notes appreciatively. A little over five feet in height, she’s nicely plump, with long dark hair curling over her shoulders and down her back and large warm brown eyes that are currently snapping with scorn. She rounds on - her brother? seems likely - and prepares to berate him; then she sees Sully and her eyes widen.

If they thought she was angry already, now she’s incandescent. She rounds the end of the bar and storms toward Sully hurling a stream of insults in several languages, driving them back step by step with their hands up in front of them placatingly. They look wary rather than afraid, but they're also trying to suppress a smile. Finally they step forward and lift the girl by her waist, carrying her over to the bar again as she beats on their chest with her small fists, still swearing. They sit her on the bar, wrap their arms gently around her and rest their forehead against hers, murmuring something in a soothing tone. It’s a lower register than usual; still their own voice, but sounding more boyish.

Drifter shakes off his surprise and sidles up to the barman. “Any chance you could pour those drinks? And, uh … if you know what’s goin' on there I’m all ears …”. He grins and indicates the floorshow.

“What, he didn’t tell you? You can get the story from him then. Let’s just say, my baby sister doesn’t forgive when someone leaves without saying goodbye.”.

Drifter laughs; _yeah, that sounds about right_. He looks over; the girl has stopped swearing now, and is tearfully clutching at Sully’s shirt as they murmur soothing words. He just catches “ … enough excuses … how about I get straight to making it up to you …?” and the girl smiles like sunshine after rain.

“Hey, _massimon_;” snaps the bartender; “you taking advantage of my sister already?”. Sully shrugs and indicates the girl's eager face, _what can I do?_, as they're dragged by the hand up the stairs. A door slams firmly behind them and the bar is suddenly very silent. Drifter lets out a breath and exchanges glances with Jacob; the kid looks somewhere between stunned and envious, and he chuckles at the picture before turning back to the bartender.

“Whisky, please. And one for the kid - he’s in shock.”.

The man laughs indulgently as he pours two shots and slides them over. “Yeah, you’d better pace yourselves; they’ll be a while.”.

* * *

‘A while’ is an understatement; it’s well over an hour later that Sully finally emerges, with the now-smiling girl clinging to their arm. She regretfully detaches and bustles back to the kitchen to pick up her interrupted duties, and Sully comes to sit at the table they've claimed. More locals are piling into the bar as the work day ends, many of them detouring to pass the strangers’ table and slap the titan on the back with a “hey, _massimon_, how’ve you been?”. Drifter waves the bartender over, ostensibly to ask for another bottle and more glasses, and fishes for information.

“What’re they calling him?” He adopts the male pronouns everyone's using; Sully's not bothered by it, he recalls, so he follows their lead.

“_Massimon_,” says the young man, “means … uh, silvertongue.”.

Jacob shifts in his seat, objecting “But they never speak.”.

The barman smiles an evil smile. “Yeah, that ain’t why.”. The rookie’s eyes widen with realisation as it dawns on him just what that silver tongue has probably done to earn the name, and Drifter laughs heartily once again at the look on his face. He needs to arrange to get the kid laid; he’s far too innocent for his own good.

He hadn’t planned to stop long in town, needing only to check the lie of the land before retrieving a stash a few miles west of here, but the entertainment value of Sully's unexpected connection to the place and Jacob's shocked reactions are just too much fun to abandon. He’s intrigued, too, to see the titan handling all the different interactions; they’re not a different person exactly, but they present effortlessly as a slight but composed young man with a roguish grin, drinking with old friends and flirting with pretty girls. He’s seen some of this before back at the Tower, but that was just brief moments; this is a sustained transformation, a different facet turned and held instead of shifting. Whoever they are here, they're comfortable and relaxed with it.

Midway through the evening food starts to arrive that he doesn’t remember anyone ordering, multiple small sharing dishes with savoury meats and stews, bread to dip and more drinks to wash it down. From the servers' comments it seems dinner is on the house - thanks, _massimon_. That's reinforced when an older woman, mother or grandmother perhaps, appears from the kitchen area and puts an extra helping of stew in front of Sully with an indulgent smile, swatting their head affectionately when they snake an arm around her hips and pull her in for a hug. He shakes his head in admiring disbelief. _Yep, they charmed the whole goddamn family. Wish I knew how they do that_.

Between the food and the welcome, they end up staying for several hours - dancing, gambling, gossiping, working along the bar all the way to the obscure liqueurs on the top shelf - before calling it a night. He struggles to remember when he last felt so social.

* * *

The stash is still where it should be, undisturbed, and Drifter breathes a sigh of relief. It’s a mix of weapons and outdoor gear laid down after a particularly successful sortie into an abandoned warlord base a few centuries ago; good quality stuff, including several three-man shelters rated for sub-zero temps and some heavy-duty climbing gear, and he breathes easier when it’s safely stowed aboard. He doesn’t know how things will end when the darkness arrives but he’s determined to be prepared.


	20. Busted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drifter's feeling the tension, and forgets to be careful.

* * *

* * *

_Mirss sighs as he hears the chanting and the high-pitched yelps float across from the other side of the cavern - it’s all very well the children playing war games, but this will be the fourth time he’s had to break up a fight between the human and the pack of Eliksni youngsters they’ve started running with. What they lack in reach and claws they make up for in muscle mass and ferocity, so it’s not entirely one-sided - but if they were ever to come to serious harm here in the caves it would jeopardise the unspoken peaceful co-existence treaty they have with the humans up top … and besides, he’s grown reluctantly attached to the feral child who follows him around like a pale shadow and won’t stop asking questions. He’s not bonded yet, but he has to admit the experience has made him consider the possibility of raising a brood of his own._

_He strolls over to the source of the noise - not too fast, he can afford to let Scout take a knock or two to teach them a lesson - but just as he reaches the edge of the fight it’s all goes suspiciously quiet. He growls in irritation, forcing his way through the silent crowd to find out what he needs to deal with **this** time. Whatever he was expecting, it certainly wasn’t this ..._

_Sprawled on the floor with his face pressed firmly in the dirt is one of the larger boys; from the colours on his short cloak Mirss identifies him instantly as one of the latest cohort recently selected for advancement. He’s been parading his new colours, gloating about his newly-restored secondary arms and bullying the littler ones at every opportunity ever since. Mirss had it in mind to take him aside and deliver a short sharp lesson in courtesy, but - well, it appears that will be redundant now._

_Scout is sitting firmly in the middle of the boy’s back, shifting occasionally to keep all four of his arms pinned, digging the fingers of one hand into the softer skin between the armoured plates on his neck and savagely pinching the nerve bundle there. They’re sporting a couple of shallow clawmarks on their cheek and shoulder, bleeding slightly, but other than that they look unscathed. Their opponent, on the other hand, is sobbing in agonised protest; Scout scowls triumphantly as they increase the pressure._

_“Enough!”. His authoritative roar slices the air and Scout looks up sharply, still scowling. He harrumphs to himself; the small one isn’t scared of him any more - and not so small either. He keeps forgetting how much they’ve grown._

_“I think he’s learned his lesson. You will let him up, and you will explain yourself.”._

_A beat passes before Scout complies, using the boy’s head as a lever to push themselves up and grinding his face in the dust one more time as a final insult._

_“He said I’d never be better than a Dreg.”, they offer sullenly._

_“Oh, and you object, small one? Do you plan to grow more arms?”. Mirss is teasing, but there’s more than one lesson going on here; Eliksni children learn the rules of the hierarchy as soon as they’re old enough to leave the creche._

_Scout glances at their beaten opponent with disdain. “Doesn’t matter. He’s no better than me; he just has more arms. He just learned not to underestimate me.”._

_Mirss sighs and stares pleadingly at the cavern roof, as if parental wisdom might be carved up there somewhere; sadly, no. He looks back at the child. “And what did you learn?”._

_Scout’s sullen expression morphs slowly into an evil grin. “That I like winning.”._

* * *

* * *

Drifter's next scheduled stop takes them to a larger port where he personally needs to lay low because of, oh … let's just say _reasons_, and leave it at that, shall we? Resigning himself to the lack of shore leave this time round, he sends the two others off to explore and pick up some gear for him while he takes advantage of the peace and quiet to finalise the details for their next phase. They’re due to pick up the rest of the crew after this, and he spends some time arranging a working roster to his satisfaction and making sure the dorm is set up to accommodate them all when they arrive.

* * *

He comes back up out of the crew quarters to find Sully perched up on the galley counter, draining a mug of coffee. The parts he sent her out for are stacked up on the mess table, and he sits for a moment to sift through the pile and check against the list he gave her. Yep, it’s all there … good. Now he can make his carefully-planned move.

“Kid won’t be back for a while.”, he remarks, apparently addressing the empty air. . “I sent him back out for … oh, skyhooks, somethin' like that. I forget.”. She smiles at the time-honoured send-the-rookie-on-a-pointless-quest move, but looks a question at him. He stretches lazily and stands up, walking across to her with a swagger and a knowing smirk.

“You _know_ why.”.

He gets closer so he can rest his hands on the counter either side of her, trapping her as he leans in.

“I’m gonna go crazy, bein’ this close all the time and not gettin' to touch ya.”, he murmurs plaintively. "We got an hour, maybe.”.

She tilts her head thoughtfully; “Nice. So … your bunk, my bunk …” she grins wickedly, “ … or right here on the counter?”.

He doesn’t waste time answering; just kisses her forcefully, breathing her in like a drowning man surfacing. He can’t decide what part of her he most wants to touch first; his hands roam everywhere he can reach - stroking her face, gripping her thigh, groping up under her shirt to feel her bare skin - and she returns the touch eagerly, running her fingers through his hair and squeezing his ass as he grinds against her. It’s glorious, every second of contact making him shiver joyfully, touch-starved as he’s been. It’s not long before he’s fumbling impatiently with the fastenings on her pants so he can slide his hand inside to tease her; circling her clit and sliding a finger into her, pulling her in for another kiss as he works the finger deeper, adding another finger when she moans against him and tilts her hips greedily. He has to halt for a moment so he can steady his voice.

“You weren’t kiddin’, huh - right here on the counter?”.

Her impish grin is answer enough, and she lifts herself up so he can remove her pants, gathering him back to her as he straightens up and frees his straining cock. He’s inside her in one swift thrust, burying his face in her neck and biting down to muffle a groan as he starts to move - _oh fuck that’s so good ... been too long .._. He dares to hope she’s been as frustrated as he has, her encounter with the pretty girl just a few days ago notwithstanding; from her enthusiastic response he reckons he’s right. He nips at the tender skin under her ear, grinning smugly at her whispered curse and the way she clutches him; he does it again for good measure and then moans as her fingers tangle in his hair and pull gently. _Fuck, yeah, more of that … _ They’re right out on display in full view of the door, he abruptly remembers; if the rookie comes back early he’ll see them at it before they have a chance to react. He halts reluctantly, catching his breath again. “Tell you what,” he says shakily, “let’s get comfortable. My bunk.”.

The sleep pods are tiny; spartan boxes with just enough space for one person to lie down and spread out, maybe two people if they don’t mind getting well-acquainted, and stow space recessed into the far end for personal effects. He has none, not in here anyway, so there’s nothing in the way as they burst breathlessly through the hatch and fall together on the mattress, shedding their remaining clothes as they go. His hands move urgently over her skin as she straddles him, stripping off her top and throwing it to one side.

She stretches her arms out either side of her to brace against the pod’s sides, throwing her head back and trembling as he thrusts up into her; he can almost see the coil tightening in her already. That expression means she’s close, _oh so close, _biting her lip and frowning in ecstatic concentration … he grips her waist, fingers digging in with the effort to not come yet, determined to watch her face as she comes and ride her through it. _Just a minute more, just a little longer, you can do this … oh fuck fuck FUCK there it is -_ he grips her harder as she tenses and shudders blissfully, _damn that’s a beautiful sight_, then he finally lets himself go, pounding up into her faster and faster until he spills over with a loud groan.

He feels like a puppet with the strings cut; they’ve had more extended sessions, god knows, but this has sucked all the tension out of him. He pulls her close, twining his legs around hers, seeking a moment of closeness before they have to put themselves back together and pretend to be nothing more than crewmates. Physical release aside, he’s beyond relieved - he foolishly hadn’t anticipated how having her join his crew would impact their comfortable arrangement, and they never got around to talking about it before she arrived. _Should really do that, one o’ these days ..._

“Good t’know we’re still a thing’.” he murmurs, and she huffs a silent laugh against his chest.

“Were you worried?”.

“Nope.”, he lies smoothly. He feels her smile - _yeah, she’s not fooled_. They need to talk, sometime soon - but not right now. Right now she’s tracing slow spirals on his skin with gentle fingertips, and he lets himself melt into the sensation.

* * *

He comes to with a start; he’s heard the hatch leading to the bridge slam open, he realises, and too late sees that he neglected to close his pod door all the way. Footsteps come closer before he can react and the rookie’s face appears in the doorway. “Drifter, you in there …?” and he stops dead as he takes in the sight of the two of them wrapped around each other. Drifter ignores him for a second, looking anxiously at Sully first to see her reaction. She’s awake but completely unconcerned, unembarrassed even, despite being effectively naked and on view. She shrugs, caressing his shoulder one last time before shifting to unhurriedly untangle herself and grab her clothes. Jacob shakes his head and backs away, somewhere between anger and embarrassment at the naked woman standing in front of him, and turns abruptly away. Drifter swears softly and puts out a tentative hand to touch her arm.

“Sorry. Guess I musta dozed off.”.

“We both did. No big deal.”.

He’s not so sure. _Ah well, time for some damage limitation_. He rapidly throws on enough clothes to be decent, and heads up to deal with the rookie.

He finds him sitting at the mess table, leaning forward on his elbows and staring angrily at nothing. Drifter automatically refreshes the coffee pot before doing anything else; no sense dealing with this unprepared. By the time it’s ready Sully joins them, fully dressed now, and heads to her customary perch at the console. She smiles crookedly as he hands her a cup of the fresh brew, and briefly grasps his arm before he moves away. He’s oddly affected by the simple gesture; _it’ll be ok_, he thinks it means.

Jacob breaks the silence. “At least now I know why you insisted on her joining the crew.” he spits out, bitterly. “How long has this been a thing?”.

Drifter sighs, irritated. “A while. And if you think I’d bring ‘em along just for that reason, yer an idiot.”.

There’s more awkward silence. Jacob seems to be on the verge of speaking several times, but thinks better of it, opening his mouth then closing it again with an angry snap. Unexpectedly Sully speaks next, and Jacob tenses at the sound of her voice. 

“He needs to know who you’ll be loyal to.”.

She’s addressing him, Drifter realises, not the rookie. “What?”.

“He needs to know, if it comes down to siding with one or other of us, who you’ll pick. He’s put his trust in you. He needs to know it’s not misplaced.”. She drains her cup and jumps lightly down from the console. As she passes Jacob she pauses, looking directly at him and addressing him for the first time. He looks astonished, if still angry, and looks up to meet her eyes. She gestures at Drifter.

“He’ll choose you. He doesn’t owe me anything.”. And she walks away, putting her cup back in the galley and disappearing down towards the crew quarters to leave the two of them alone.

* * *

“Is she right?”.

Drifter’s still staring after her; he looks back at Jacob distractedly.

“What ..? Yeah. It ain’t somethin’ I wanted to think about, but … yeah. That’s how it has to be.”.

That’s a half-truth at best; he _has_ thought about it, the very idea of her leaving chills him, and he’s an idiot for not having talked to her about how he feels … but that’s an issue for later. He shakes himself; his partner needs reassurance right now. He sits down opposite him at the table and feigns confidence he’s far from feeling, opening up his body language and putting as much persuasion into his voice as he can muster.

“Look; this ain’t ideal, but - here we are. If you got questions, ask ‘em now.”.

Jacob mulls that over. “You care about her.”. It isn’t a question.

Drifter nods firmly. “Yeah.”. 

The kid frowns again as realisation hits him. “She’s your mystery visitor. Faerie glimmer girl.”.

He laughs out loud at that. “Yeah.”.

Jacob goes to speak again, hesitates; “So … does she care about you? I mean, um, is this a long-term thing?”.

That stops the laugh in its tracks as Drifter considers, frowning in turn. Then, slowly; “Honestly, kid? I have no idea. We ain’t talked about it.”.

“Okay. That must be … awkward.”. 

Drifter spreads his hands in frustrated agreement.

"I guess … wait, you keep saying she has skills we need. What did you mean?”.

Drifter picks his words carefully; aware she might be listening, knowing that what he has to say may sound less than flattering. But he has to be honest with his partner.

“Kid, you’ve seen ‘em in action; in Gambit, I mean. Word is, they're just playin’ in there … when they get serious it's somethin’ else.”. He ticks off on his fingers, _one_. “So, combat skills. Light, weapons, hand-to-hand … I watched ‘em nearly twist your stupid head clean off your dumb neck just to make a point, and I believe they actually kinda like you. Imagine what they do to people they got no time for.”.

There’s a pause while Jacob considers this. “Okay. Scary combat-trained psycho, got it.”.

Drifter grins and continues with another finger, _two_; “People skills. They got _charm_, kid - a gift for makin’ friends. If they need to, they can make people like ‘em, want to do anythin' they say.”. That gets a thoughtful frown, but no comment. “You don’t believe me? Ask all those people back at the bar about _massimon_.”. Jacob smirks slightly at that, nodding reluctant agreement.

Drifter continues; “Knowledge.”. That’s another finger, _three_. "I don’t believe there’s a language they don’t know, even the dead ones. They read everythin’ they pick up. They know stuff they couldn’t possibly know, stuff that’s been lost since the Dark Age. Fixed up that antique sniper in a matter of days. I don’t even know the half of what they can do.”.

He pauses and considers his final point. “I can keep goin’ if you like, but here’s the thing. If they ain’t with us, there’s a chance they'll be against us. Or maybe they’ll walk away and never think about us again. _Maybe_. I’d feel better knowin' they're with us.”.

Jacob sits back and mulls over what he’s heard, staring at nothing while he makes sense of the information dump. He’d made the error of assuming the hero’s reputation was overcooked, fooled by her bland appearance just as Drifter had been to begin with, and despite his brush with death at her hands he’s still not sure how she can honestly be all of that in one package. In the end his fondness for his business partner wins out; he nods decisively.

“Well, I guess if you want her on the crew, she’s on the crew. The rest of it’s none of my business.”. He smirks; "Just don’t come crying to me when she kills and eats you after sex.”.

Drifter laughs heartily at that; the kid’s gonna be okay.

She emerges for the evening meal, calm as ever. Drifter can’t tell if she’s heard everything he had to say to Jacob or not, and he doesn’t want to ask - if he’s honest, in case it leads to a longer, more fraught conversation about exactly how he feels, and exactly how she feels, and is she just going to leave him one of these days … _no. This ain’t the right time for that_.

What the right time might be, he can’t say.

* * *

He decides to make an unscheduled stop two days later; there’s chatter on the comms about ships being impounded at the port they were heading for, a smuggling ring being broken up, and he doesn’t want to get caught up in that. Nobody’s business what he’s got in the hold right now, and he needs to stay off the radar while he’s retrieving his various stashes. The new destination is just off the major trade routes but sees a lot of traffic from travellers looking for cheaper options - he warns them both to be on the lookout for trouble as they head down to the surface in search of an evening’s socialising.

They find it easily enough; a dingy bar in a back alley, strains of music floating out into the night above the roar of conversation. It’s dim and crowded inside, perfect for a couple of drinks and maybe a hand or two of cards without drawing too much attention. The clientele is a mix of human and Fallen, overwhelmingly male as far as he can see, and he doesn’t miss how Sully's body language subtly shifts to male-presenting as she takes in the atmosphere. _Chameleon _…

They find a corner to nurse their drinks and he slides out a battered pack of cards to while away some time. Perfect cover for some people-watching … or it would be, except he’s mostly watching her as she watches other people. She’s apparently following the rapid Eliksni conversation at two nearby tables, eyebrows quirking in occasional amusement, while her gaze wanders across to the bar area and the people hanging around there.

“See anyone you know?”, he teases, and she grins distractedly.

“Not yet. Anyway, there’s trouble brewing.”. She subtly indicates two men at the near end of the bar, sitting a few feet apart and carefully not interacting; but as other patrons pass them Drifter can see them flashing hand signals and occasional glances at each other.

“What're they plannin'?”.

She frowns in concentration. “Looks like, identifying the marks with money as they come out of the game in the back room. One of them will start a fight as a distraction, the other’s going to pick pockets.”.

He shakes his head and laughs softly. “You know thief sign? - yeah, of course you do. Let’s stay well out of it, huh?”.

She smiles faintly. “I’ll try … but I need another drink, and I’m exactly what they’re looking for - me or Jacob. Someone who looks young, out of place, and without many friends to back them up.”. The smile widens and becomes something dark and terrifying for a split second. “This is going to be fun.”.

“Whoa, whoa … what’re _you_ plannin'?”. He’s alarmed now.

She just shrugs. “If they want to play, let’s play. I don’t think they’ve read the room - look at all the Eliksni here. They love a good bar fight.”.

She stands up and picks up her empty glass, ready to go to the bar; then she turns back to stare a challenge at Jacob. “Ten glimmer says I can get at least one of them to shit his pants.”.

He scoffs; “You’re on.”.

As she steps away from the table she stops near the group next to them, holding her glass in front of her; she taps it with her fingernail, a short but complex tattoo that rings out faintly amidst the conversation. Jacob starts when the four Fallen at the table repeat the pattern perfectly, drumming lightly on the tabletop with their claws. She smiles a satisfied smile and leans in to murmur something to the one nearest her, with a jerk of her head at the would-be thieves, then carries on to the bar.

Exactly as she predicted, as she reaches the bar the man nearest her clumsily jumps up and knocks a bottle on the floor, then rounds on her as if she caused it. They can’t hear what’s being said but the inference is obvious; he’s claiming she shoulder-barged him and spilled his drink, and he wants satisfaction.

If he’d counted on this slight, beardless youth in front of him being intimidated, he rapidly realises his mistake; it’s almost comical to watch the confusion in his eyes as she calmly steps around him and places her own glass on the bar, signalling to the bartender for a refill, before turning back to him. The man scrambles to recover some part of his plan, casting an uncertain glance back at his partner before reaching for the knife at his belt in a clear feint, intended to cause his opponent to panic and strike first. It’s pathetically obvious, or maybe that’s due to her clear signposting ahead of time; she watches patiently as he makes the staged move and halts, holding his gaze as his bewilderment grows. Her hand is resting on the bar, and without breaking eye contact she taps out the pattern again - softly, in no way audible across the crowded bar, but somehow it’s picked up and repeated around the room. Drifter looks around hastily; at least half of the Fallen in here are drumming their claws on the tables, picking up the rhythm as they hear it and amplifying it. He’s never seen this before; he’s at a loss.

Suddenly she raises a hand and slams it on the bar, shouting something in Eliksni at the same time. Whatever it is has the same rhythm as the drumming; the phrase is immediately echoed back by a chorus of guttural voices. With a start he realises why it sounds oddly familiar even though he’s never heard it before - it’s a war chant, a _haka_, a ritual for psyching up fighters before battle. The combined effect is terrifying, and most of the human patrons are frozen in their seats; the thief is frantically backing away, realising too late that he’s picked the wrong victim.

She takes a step forward, spreading her arms out with open hands; four Fallen appear from behind her and drop into a fighting crouch. Another step, and they follow; several more fall in behind them. Another step, another row … there’s a whole troop now, all in sync as they chant and step, chant and step. By now the thief is almost at the far wall, nearly at the door but not daring to turn his back to see if the escape route is clear. There’s a break in the rhythm as the titan puts one foot forward and raises a hand .. with a wordless shout every Fallen behind her raises all four arms, jumping forward and roaring as one, and the thief whimpers; he bolts, falling over his own feet as he goes and scrambling back up and through the door.

Sully stands dead still for a count of three, a faint smile on her face, then turns just her head, no other movement, to focus on the other half of the duo. He’s been standing staring fixedly at his beer, trying to pretend he’s not involved, and now he flinches as he catches the motion in his peripheral vision. As he looks up she raises her hand in another signal and the Fallen behind her shift to face him in a new formation. He has less nerve than his partner; he turns and runs immediately and the door slams behind him.

There’s a long moment while nobody moves; then she laughs raucously, turning to exchange what’s probably the Eliksni version of a high five with her new friends. She makes an exaggerated ‘do you smell something?’ face at Jacob, and he acknowledges defeat with a grimace. He’s no doubt the two hapless thieves will be looking for a change of trousers, once they’ve stopped running. Drifter is chuckling helplessly next to him.

“Ain’t seen a show like that in a while … told ya they make friends easily, didn’t I?.”.

“Friends? An army, more like.”.

She arrives back at the table tailed by several Fallen, all still laughing. They all make themselves at home and suddenly drinks start arriving, looks like people want to pay their respects - well, he won’t complain. This bar will probably never be targeted by thieves again; it wouldn’t be surprising if half the rounds are being stood by the owner.

Jacob wordlessly reaches into his pack and hand over a small pile of glimmer with a rueful smile.

She counts it; “Twenty? We only bet ten …”.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Yeah - the other ten is for me. Be right back, just got to go and change my pants …”.

She sniggers at that and shakes his offered hand before stowing the glimmer away. Drifter allows himself a brief moment of satisfaction; barely a week in and she's charmed the rookie. _I knew she’d bring him round._


	21. One of these days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for Drifter's expedition out of the system to begin in earnest; they stop to take on more crew, and he gets his first inkling of possible trouble ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly plot this time, no smut, but Drifter does get to enjoy some snuggles. I'm not completely heartless :)

There's one final rendezvous on the schedule before the expedition begins in earnest; retracing their steps slightly to pick up the rest of Drifter's handpicked crew. The little jobs they’ve done so far haven’t needed more than the three of them, but the larger stashes further out are going to need more hands - and more muscle, in case of trouble. It’s been … oh, too long since he’s been out to some of the places on the itinerary, and he has no way of knowing how much has changed or what sort of reception they’ll get. He’d prefer to stack the odds firmly in his favour, while he’s got the resources to do it.

The venue for the pickup is one of the larger ports at the very edge of Sol's system, big enough and busy enough that his anonymous ship and fake identity will pass unnoticed; and the new people will blend in to the crowd, too, while they’re waiting for him to give the signal that he’s ready for them. He’s vetoed shore leave for everyone this time around, not wanting to risk either Jacob or Sully being recognised this close to home. Occasional messages via his intercepts on official channels suggest the Vanguard is still heavily invested in bringing their heroes back to the fold, and even with the events of the Red War decimating their networks they still have a long arm.

Making the best of the enforced inactivity, Sully’s perched up on the console reassembling her sidearm after cleaning it; Jacob has been finishing up his chores for the morning in the galley, culminating in making yet another pot of coffee. As grateful as Drifter is for the fresh brew handed to him, he feels a brief flicker of anxiety - he’s gonna have to check the inventory soon, he hadn’t calculated for all three of them being caffeine fiends and he’d hate to run out miles from anywhere.

If pushed, he’d have to admit that this is a comfortable scene, the three of them just pottering about taking care of tasks and half-listening to the ancient classical rock tunes that for some reason Jacob’s ghost has been patiently cataloguing and will play on demand. The tune changes to one he’s heard before, a soulful ballad, and he stills for a moment to listen.

_One of these days_

_I’m gonna change my evil ways_

_’Til then I’ll just keep riding on …_

That makes him smile ruefully; _yeah, one of these days_. It’s practically his motto now. So many things he wants to do and say, and it’s never the right time. But potential coffee shortages, now that’s not a one-of-these-days problem; some things demand decisive action … he makes a note on the edge of the roster to check inventory and get an order in, just as the external vid pickup blinks an alert for the outer hatch. The feed shows him just the faces he was expecting to see and he relaxes again, hitting the authorisation and sitting back to watch them as they board and come through to the bridge.

First up, five of his Dredgens; a male exo, one Awoken man, three human women. All hand-picked for their ability to follow orders in Gambit, alongside their fighting skills … and each one tested with one or two side-missions, just to be sure of their loyalty. They troop through with their kit bags and stand in a bunch in the centre of the room, looking around and orienting themselves. As they settle down he checks off the names on his roster - Piet, Asa, Triss, Raven, Marta. All here, good.

The exo is a warlock, a combat veteran of several years' standing but also a thoughtful scholar with a yearning to see more of the galaxy. His eyes are currently a dull, warm amber glow in his brushed-steel face; they shade to red when he’s angry, Drifter knows, and this colour suggests he’s relaxed and secure. Good. He suspects the exo might be paired with Triss but he hasn’t bothered to ask; that’s their business.

Asa is a solid, stocky titan with markedly pale skin, dark reddish hair standing up from his head and curling in a slight quiff, and dark green patterns running across his forehead and around his pale eyes. There’s a faint curl to his lip that seems to be his permanent expression; he’s been known to be surly on occasion, but he can follow orders and he’s useful in a fight. Of course they all are, otherwise they wouldn’t have made it this far … Drifter’s aware suddenly that he doesn’t know if the boy has any other useful features at all, and chastises himself for the thought. Not everyone can be a polymath; he's been incredibly lucky with the ones he’s found so far.

Triss is another warlock, one who’s seen more action on the Ascendant Plane than everyone else put together and is reknowned for her mastery of void light in all its complexity. She’s tall and slender, pale with dark hair; winged brows and thick dark eyelashes accentuate her startling pale blue eyes.

Raven and Marta are both hunters; quick and subtle, both have made themselves indispensable for their ability to scout around and sneak into places they shouldn’t be without being seen. Raven is thoughtful, slower to speak but quick to listen and understand. She’s dark-haired, short and slight compared to the others, but he knows she’s capable of defending herself. He registers Sully straightening up slightly as she sees the girl, and notes the barest shiver of her eyelid as she winks at her. _Oho, there’s history there_. He makes a mental note to find out what that’s about at the first opportunity ...

He comes to Marta, slightly taller with auburn hair and grey/green eyes. She has the stereotypical redhead’s pale freckled skin, and the equally stereotypical hot temper; a little too quick to settle arguments with her twin knives as a rule, but he figures she’ll have learned some restraint by the time they’ve been out a few weeks. Tower rules about guardian infighting have prevented her from coming up against anyone who’d make her permanently sorry until now, but he knows there are some harsh lessons in her near future. He needs her skills, and for the rest - he shrugs to himself; _she’ll learn_.

He watches carefully for their reactions to the two already on board, the first test of the likely dynamic going forward. From the warlocks, cordial but neutral nods; Raven flashes a shy smile across the room, and Marta stands back, eyes narrowed as she appraises them both. Too late Drifter recalls her habit of trying to attach any likely male, apparently convinced of her own irresistibility. It’s not like she even wants them half the time, she just wants to chalk up a win and have them all hanging after her. She predictably smiles coyly at Jacob, he’s an obvious specimen; then she gets to Sully and frowns. Not so easy to read. Male? A bit male? Likely to be interested?

Sully goes deliberately blank, face and body language both absolutely null, and he smiles to himself. Not that he suffers overmuch from jealousy, but he’d have been puzzled if Marta had been in any way interesting to the titan. Pretty face notwithstanding, she lacks depth - what you see is what you get with that one.

As the silence draws out he figures it’s time to move things along, but before he can speak there’s a scoff from Asa. He saunters forward with all the confidence of a playground bully and flaps a hand at Sully.

“What’s the bugfucker doing here?”, he sneers.

Sully grins slightly at the childish Tower insult; only Jacob is close enough to hear her murmur ruefully “Alas, my reputation …” and he chokes off a snort of laughter into an unconvincing cough. Drifter speaks sharply so that everyone swivels back to look at him.

“The _bugfucker_… “ and he stresses the word, his displeasure made very clear, “ … is my wingman. Anyone's got issues with that is walkin’ home. Clear?”. There are hasty nods around the room and Asa subsides, flushing. 

Marta seems to have made up her mind that the silver titan isn’t worth bothering with; she swings her hips and strolls over to Drifter, placing a confiding hand on his arm and smiling up into his face. _Here we go_. She’d bothered him before in a minor way, one of the many who’d decided he’d be some kind of trophy, but he hoped she’d got over that. Apparently not. She leans in and purrs “Thanks for the invitation, Drift - looking forward to working with you.”. Then she disengages and sashays away, enjoying all eyes being on her, and picks up her kit bag. “Where do I sleep?”. Still talking only to Drifter … damn, does she think he’s just gonna install her in his bed? He keeps his face carefully blank and gestures roughly in the direction of the quarters.

“Dorm’s just down there. Sort yerselves out.”. 

Her smile falters for a second; “Is that where you’re sleeping?”. 

He gives her a cold stare; “None o’your business where I’m sleepin’, sister. Go choose yer bunk.”. She blinks. He ignores her, adding “That goes for all of ya - get settled, come back in ten minutes for briefing.”, then turns away and looks at Sully and Jacob at the other side of the room. He can see their smirks from here; damn them both to hell, they think it’s funny … he waits for the room to empty, Marta still casting uncertain glances back over her shoulder, before he sits down and fixes them both with a glare. “What?” he raps out.

“I think you’ve pulled …” Jacob offers, before cracking up; Sully pats him on the back in mock-concern. 

“Fuck off, kid.” Drifter snarls. He looks at Sully; “You enjoying this? Don’t suppose you’d like to run a little interference with the redhead, give her mind a new direction?”. She snorts at that and shakes her head emphatically.

“No thanks. I have a rule, don’t get tangled up with crazy.”. She pauses for just a beat before waving an airy hand at him. “Present company excepted.”. Jacob bursts out laughing again at that, and lifts his hand for a fist bump which she obligingly returns.

At Drifter's sour face, Jacob says innocently. “What’s wrong? I thought you _wanted_ us to get along …?”.

Drifter huffs an irritated laugh. “Not like this!”, he grumbles. “You’re makin' me feel old.”. He stalks away to the mess table to get ready for the mission briefing.

There are two more figures coming aboard now, the final two to complete his roster. Jacob nods cautiously at them; one Dreg and one Vandal, new friends from the bar fight at their last stop. They’re both currently houseless and looking to escape troubles on the Shore, and their references check out. Sully leaves her perch and steps over to exchange a complex handshake with both new arrivals, and a greeting in fluent Eliksni. They both speak more than enough Common to get by in a mixed environment, but Drifter elects to show them through to the dorm in case of trouble. He forestalls the murmur from a small subset of the Dredgens with a raised hand. 

“I don't wanna hear it. They’re crew, I need ‘em, and that’s final.”. His voice is mild but firm, and they subside quickly.

He stamps down to the hold to compose himself for a couple of minutes; the crew he had in mind when he picked the names, weeks ago, seems a long way off now they’re all in one place. He knew there’d be some friction as they settled in but he hadn’t banked on the redhead; she’s showing every sign of being the sort of trouble that escalates if it’s not dealt with firmly at the start. And if she thinks she’s been passed over in favour of someone else … he stares bleakly at the the opposite wall. _Fireworks_, he thinks; _no - knife tricks_. _The fatal kind_. Several possible options for setting her straight line up in his mind, and he sorts through the most likely scenarios before heading back up to the bridge. Best to be prepared for when - not if - she kicks off.

The briefing goes smoothly enough; he gives them the outline plan and the itinerary, and takes a few scattered questions about as much detail as he’s willing to share. Marta has recovered her poise and is pretending the previous exchange never happened, he notes. Duties are assigned, rotas posted, and they’re underway - after arranging a hasty delivery of more coffee, of course.

* * *

It’s less than twenty-four hours before Marta makes trouble. Mid morning he steps out of his pod and she appears beside him, as if she’s been waiting for him to emerge. _Bad idea, sister, I ain’t had my coffee yet_. He scowls as he rounds to face her, and the look on his face makes her pause for a second before she ploughs on.

“I was wondering … could we talk about the sleeping arrangements?”.

He gives her an irritated look and pointedly swings past her towards the galley. Sully is already refreshing the pot at his approach, and he spares her a grateful grimace. Marta’s still following him expectantly. _Take a hint, goddamnit_. No such luck; she persists, “It’s just - I really don’t feel safe, You know, in there with …” and she gestures - at the other Dredgens, the Fallen, who knows. Apparently he’s supposed to fill in the blanks himself. He knows what she’s driving at, of course. He looks her up and down.

“Last I heard, you knew how to take care o’yerself. Anyone gives you trouble, deal with it.”.

She gets closer, undeterred, and smirks confidingly up at him. “I know I’d feel better if, you know, I had a more secure place to sleep. Just in case.”. She flicks her eyes meaningfully towards the door to his pod. He stands stock still for a second - _she’s really gonna force the issue, huh _\- and makes an abrupt decision. This scenario wasn't on his list, but this could work out in his favour. He forces a broad smile to his face, spreading his hands expansively.

“Well now, that’s easy to fix, darlin’. Go get yer stuff.”.

She lights up with smug satisfaction, practically purring “I knew you’d get it.”, winks and scampers off to the dorm. As soon as she’s out of sight he turns to Sully, gesturing her to follow him to the quarters. She does so, not coincidentally delivering his coffee at the same time. He takes the cup gratefully and leans back on the wall to take his first blessed sip while they wait for Marta. Sully catches his eye with a querying look; he shakes his head, _you’ll see_.

Marta’s back in less than a minute, wreathed in triumphant smiles at having got her way. Drifter grins evilly at how smug she looks right now.

“There you go, darlin - all yours.”.

He gestures at the pod he’s been occupying, totally empty now that he’s dressed and picked up his gun, and waves her through like a concierge. Then he turns to Sully.

“Guess what, hero - got yerself a roommate. Shuffle up.”.

Thank god for her subtlety, he thinks, as she rolls her eyes like it’s most outrageous imposition ever; she opens the door to her own tiny pod with a resigned _help yourself_ gesture. Meanwhile Marta’s smile is frozen in place as she tries to make sense of how things have just backfired on her. He almost feels sorry for her. _Almost_. He's no time to spare for childish tricks, and his experiences with Sully have renewed his taste for directness in his personal life. He turns away, satisfied with his solution for now.

Marta clutches at his arm; “What are you doing?”. She forgets to be appealing in that second, sounding instead sulky and demanding. He gestures once more at the pod.

“What you asked for! Can’t have our princess feeling unsafe, now, can we?”. He grins, past caring whether she realises he’s mocking her. “Enjoy.”. And he turns away.

She goes to follow him, and realises she’s still holding all her stuff; after a second of indecision she drops it all in the pod and dashes after him, manoeuvring to get round him and make him face her.

“That isn’t what I meant!”, she hisses, as if there’s any way he could possibly have misunderstood. 

He sneers. “I _know_ what ya meant, princess. Listen up; this ain’t a honeymoon cruise. Keep it in yer pants, keep your mind on yer work, and don't try to make trouble.”. He’s beyond done; his tone may be mocking but his expression is cold, dangerous even - a timely reminder, if she needed it, how lethal he can be when pushed. She finally subsides, wobbling for a split second, then reels away and bolts to the pod, slamming the door behind her. There’s a _thud_ as something is hurled at the inside of the door.

He turns to face the rest of the crew, who all suddenly have something very interesting to look at in the opposite direction. Jacob looks stunned, or is he trying not to laugh? _Yeah, probably_. Sully’s already gone, headed for the hold for something.

* * *

After a moment's indecision he follows her, feeling the need for some uncomplicated contact for just a minute. Not sex; not even affection - just to talk to someone who doesn’t jerk him around. She’s at the workbench, idly looking over some more machine parts as if mulling possible uses. She looks up as he approaches.

He sighs heavily as he leans against the wall beside her. “Say what’s on yer mind.”.

“Really?”.

“Really.”, he says firmly, though privately he's dreading that he's about to get chewed out for his impulsive prank.

But she grins broadly, flicking her eyes up in the direction of the quarters and, by inference, the disappointed hunter. “You need to be more careful where you put it.”.

He holds up a hasty hand in denial. “Now hold on, I never touched her. Never even flirted with her …. “ - he tails off as he recalls he may have, just once or twice, laid on the charm a little thicker with the redhead to gain her agreement to some scheme or other. Could she have read more into that than he meant …? He’s answered himself; _of course she could_. “Damn.” he says softly, and waves an irritable hand in defeat as Sully's grin broadens in triumph. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Too late to change it now.”.

The titan raises her eyebrows. “She's going to be trouble.”.

He can’t bring himself to disagree.

* * *

He’s not sure right up until the end of the day whether the redhead is going to take the sleep pod he’s given up; her pride in the end forces her to roll with it, avoiding the humiliation of trooping back in defeat to the dorm with the others. He allows himself an unsympathetic grin as the door slams behind her.

There have been some last minute changes to the roster; after seeing the way they greeted each other he’s assigned Raven to stand the first watch with him, apparently at random but in reality hoping to uncover how she knows Sully - and in what capacity. It completely escapes him that the directness he so values in his lover, he’s failing to reciprocate.

As the ship quiets down, the murmur of conversation from the dorm dying away and nightshift-calm settling over the space, he stretches himself out in one of the command chairs and starts his subtle interrogation. He's up against the young hunter's natural reserve, but he keeps up a casual flow of innocuous comments to draw her out and put her at her ease. He pretends not to watch her when he drops Sully’s name into the conversation at last, some passing remark about how he’s glad he has someone on board who’s at ease around the two Fallen. Raven smiles, just faintly, and looks reminiscent for a second. It dawns on him; he met her first when she came down to the basement after that mission in the EDZ - she’s one of the kinderguardians Echo Three were babysitting that time. She’s also one of the witnesses to his near-murder at the titan’s hands … he shifts uncomfortably. She looks upon, a stricken look on her gentle face.

“Are you okay?”.

Damn, she’s observant, or sensitive. He considers evading the question, before deciding a little honesty will go further with this one.

“Yeah, I just remembered the first time I met ya. Sully nearly took my eye out with that damn dagger.”. He chuckles self-deprecatingly.

She narrows her eyes; “You were asking for it.”. Ah, she’s got claws then. He nods reflectively.

“You ain’t wrong, sister. I’m learnin’ though.”. He lets a moment pass before he hits her with the cross-counter; “You’d’a shot me without a second thought if they’d asked you, too.”.

She goes perfectly still. “Yes, I would have. Sully is … a hero. We saw exactly what that actually means for real, out on patrol. And you … well … we’d been told you were just this shady little man who ran an illegal game in the basement, hiding from the authorities.”.

He’s momentarily stunned by this scathing assessment of him, even though as far as he was able to arrange it it’s exactly what he wanted everyone to think.

“Sully said that?”.

“Oh no; other people. Sully said - their ghost said - we should decide for ourselves. Said you were more complex than you let on, and we could learn from that if we paid attention.”. She stops, flushing slightly, conscious she’s blabbing. Then she goes on, awkwardly; “ … so, here we are. I took their advice.”.

He smiles indulgently. “Good. I’m glad ya listened to ‘em.”. He looks at the shy smile spreading across her face as she stares down at her hands in her lap; “Ya like ‘em, don’t ya.”. It’s a statement rather than a question, and she blushes again but doesn’t answer. He chuckles and takes pity, deciding he’s teased her enough, and lets the conversation lapse into companiable silence again.

Towards the end of the watch he stands up to make fresh coffee; “You wanna go wake ‘em? They’re up next.”. He doesn’t specify which ‘them’, just smirks at her meaningfully until realisation dawns. “Oh … oh! Okay, sure.”, and she hurriedly stands up and heads to the crew quarters. He grins to himself; _I’m an evil sonofabitch sometimes_.

* * *

Raven taps gently on the pod door, waiting a second for a response. None comes so she taps again, slightly louder this time. Still nothing. Hesitantly she turns the handle and swings the door outward, peeking in to the dark space and blinking as her eyes adjust. The titan is sprawled out across the bed, breathing evenly, apparently deeply asleep. As Raven moves to touch their shoulder though she realises their eyes are open and they’re watching her intently. She freezes.

Sully sits up a little, smoothly bringing her face level with the girl, and looks her in the eye. “Drifter send you to wake me?”.

Raven nods, cursing her nerves as she fights to speak without stuttering. “You’re up.”. Sully holds eye contact for a moment more, then smiles very slightly.

“Okay. I’m awake.”. That seems to be a dismissal, though not an unkind one; Raven retreats hastily and backs out into the corridor, standing still for a second to calm herself. Drifter notes her distracted air when she finally comes back to the bridge, and grins to himself.

Sully pads out silently on bare feet a minute later, heading straight to the coffee with a casual wave at him as she passes - _not _a mornings person, even if this morning is actually the middle of the night. He waits for her to get some coffee inside her before he tries making conversation, and even then he keeps it brief. Raven is dispatched to wake the other crewman who’ll be standing this watch - Aki, the Vandal - and his eyebrows rise as they come back to the bridge together holding a hushed conversation in Eliksni; hesitant on her part, searching for the correct vocabulary, but she’s holding her own.

He turns in immediately after that; no sense hanging around at handover once everything’s been reported.

Stepping into the tiny pod, he's conscious of feeling slightly awkward, as if he's trespassing somehow. This is the first time he’s been in Sully’s space; all their time together has been on the Derelict, firmly in his territory, or in shared accommodation of one kind or another. This is all hers, and he's invited himself in without considering whether that might actually be an issue for her ... well, what's done is done. He can talk to her about it - heh, one of these days. Another item for the list.

Knowing that she’s turned her back on the Vanguard, on her previous life at the Tower - even if she plans to go back some day - he’s gripped by curiosity to know what she’d bring with her; what matters enough to her that she’d carry it with her on a trip like this. She doesn’t get attached to things, as far as he can tell, so anything she keeps by her must be significant somehow. He stops short of going through the closed lockers; that’s a step too far, even for him. Besides, she might notice … instead he checks out what’s on clear view on the small recessed shelf by the head of the narrow bed. Nothing particularly exotic; besides a bottle of water and a paper-wrapped bundle of some kind of jerky there’s just a book - the real thing, a bundle of dead tree and cowskin stitched together. He picks it up curiously for a closer look; faded silver letters on the cover spell out _The Iliad_. It doesn’t exactly sound like a page-turner, but he opens it at random to see what it’s about. After a couple of tries he realises he can’t read a single word in this unfamiliar alphabet, and he gives up and carefully places it back where he found it.

Next he turns to the bed itself; the only other thing that looks like it must be hers is the blanket flung over the basic ship-issue bedroll. It’s made from some soft animal-wool fibre, dyed a deep bluish-grey and woven in a subtle textured pattern of squares, unbelievably warm and comforting to the touch. It must travel with her everywhere; it even smells like her. He imagines her wrapped up in this and nothing else, lying next to him, and swallows heavily at the wave of desire that washes over him. 

As he strips off and settles back on the bed he pulls it over him and quickly drifts off to sleep, surrounded by her scent.

* * *

He half wakes when her watch ends four hours later and she climbs in over him to reach some unoccupied bed space; he’s inadvertently spread out over the side nearer the door. He considers grabbing her as she straddles him, remembering just in time the redhead sulking on the other side of the thin metal wall, and settles for snuggling up to her back with a sleepy ‘hhhmmmmmm’ as she gets comfortable beside him. He feels her laugh silently as he laces her fingers through his and pulls his arm tighter around her. This is perfect - he should have done this days ago. Weeks, even. He floats on the edge of sleep for a good while, just enjoying the closeness and wondering how long he’ll have … whatever this is.

He thinks back to Jacob’s question; “Does she care about you?” and his brows draw together in a frown. _Still no idea, kid. Wish I knew_. 


	22. Cry Out For Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What should have been a simple mission to pick up another of Drifter's stashes, turns into an exercise in justice; and the crew get a glimpse of their leader's - and Sully's - darker sides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The dead cannot cry out for justice. It is a duty of the living to do so for them." Lois McMaster Bujold
> 
> I always wondered what it would look like, in sci-fi, when the terraforming isn't maintained and a place starts to revert back to its natural state. What happens to the ordinary people trying to live there, if they have no other options?
> 
> Also I make no apologies for the very Wild West theme in this chapter.

The watch rota was a stroke of accidental genius, Drifter congratulates himself as he surfaces fuzzily from a deep sleep. It means that Jacob gets to be the one to wake them in the morning; very convenient, being as they're still wrapped around each other when the kid taps on the door and peeks in. He retreats hastily, not that there’s anything much to see, they’re both at least partly clothed with nothing untoward going on, but still - not good for anyone else to catch them cuddling up like that. He’s got a reputation to maintain, after all, and they don’t need any accusations of favouritism flying around. Bad for morale.

They’re rapidly approaching their next stop, a mining settlement at the edge of a depleted asteroid belt that barely supports its grim inhabitants. He’d half-expected to find it abandoned, certain the asteroids would have given up every possible mineral deposit of value by now, but it seems there are still people desperate enough to scrape subsistence living out of the scraps that remain. The crew briefing is short and to the point; it’s a simple mission in and out to retrieve a stash that may or not still be there, tucked in the back of a cave system that he once had occasion to lay low in for a while. He doesn’t elaborate on the story behind that - they’ve all heard variations on his Dark Age hardship tales before.

“Aki, Triss, Maj - you’ll stay behind and watch the ship. We check in every hour; if we don't you get to a safe distance and ping us on channel three until we respond.”.

They nod and turn away to their assignments. He doesn't expect real trouble, but it doesn’t hurt to lay down some emergency procedures from the very start. Things are likely to get rougher from here, not smoother.

“Everybody else, with me. Dress for dust and cold. If you got ranged weapons, bring ‘em. We’ll drop half a klick from the cave mouth and scope the lie of the land before we get closer. When we get there, if all’s well, we drop beacons and transmat ourselves and everythin' else the hell out of there. Any questions?”.

No hands go up; satisfied, he nods dismissal. “Go prep; we head out in twenty minutes.”.

* * *

He’s avoiding taking them into the town, certain there’s nothing there of value based on the lacklustre chatter he’s managed to pick up on the comms channels so far. Small trades of nothing special and days-old bulletins about minor trouble on the outskirts, nothing that interests him. Getting straight down to business, they drop precisely on the spot he’d chosen, close to the wide ravine which serves as the main route into the town, and he makes a mental note to commend Maj later for the precision and the smooth transfer. Not many people he’s known could transport a party of seven such assorted people with such finesse. 

He straightens up to look around him, immediately alert for signs of danger in the surrounding terrain. So far it looks clear - they’re concealed by a slight dip in the landscape, a shallow scoop left by the eddies of long-departed water and edged with pale boulders that provide some cover. As far as the eye can see it’s pale dust and rock, a bleak palette of bleached bone and dead wood made even blander by the weak bluish sun high overhead. Sparse plant life clings to survival in cracks here and there, pale grey and woody, anything more succulent getting scoured away by the constant breeze and the gritty dirt it moves around. He doesn't remember it being quite this depressing when he was last here - if he had to guess he’d say it looks like the terraforming is starting to break down.

He looks back at the crew to see their reaction to the new environment; how they all deal with this will be another good test of how they’ll work out. Sully is at the back of the pack, scanning the landscape; she’s brought her refitted sniper for an outing, he sees, along with her arcspear dagger and what looks like a small sidearm with a scuffed matt-black finish. He’ll have to get her to show him that later, he decides; he can’t identify it immediately, and he thought he knew all the makes and models around these days.

Everyone else has listened to his instructions and are similarly geared up with scouts and snipers, dressed in practical layers with an assortment of face coverings to keep the driving dust out of their mouths and eyes. He nods crisply; good. They’re paying attention.

“Okay, let’s do this.”. He keeps his voice down just in case, and they huddle closer to make sure they catch what he has to say. “We head that way,” he indicates, “we find a vantage point and we see if anyone’s comin’ in and out.”. He looks at Sully; “ … how good’s the scope on that thing?”. She tips him a high ‘ok’ sign, thumb and forefinger curled in a circle, and he nods. _Pretty damn good, then._

* * *

The vantage point, when they find it, is perfect; at the top of a long slope with several more of the huge boulders providing cover to hide behind, directly overlooking the route that passes the cave system. The cave entrance itself seems to have changed very little over the years, with a wide lip of stone overhanging a steep drop carved away by the ancient river that used to flow here. Easy to defend, a bitch to attack. He smiles, remembering the times he had cause to be grateful for the layout; the smile sours into a grimace as he recalls he’s on the wrong side of that equation now.

He turns to call Sully forward, but she’s already next to him and unshipping the sniper, laying down flat just behind the lip of the slope and getting into position to sight down its long barrel. He signals everyone else to drop into cover and settles himself down to wait for intel.

It’s not long before he has some. “Movement.” she breathes. “Someone in the cave mouth, heading out. At least one person still inside, maybe more.”.

_Damn_. He signals Jacob and Piet to keep a closer watch on the approaches to their current position; don’t want anyone creeping up on them.

Sully keeps up the reporting; “Someone coming out of cover below the cave mouth, seems to be expected. They’re letting down a ladder for them. They’re climbing up, looks like they have several bundles with them. Mining packs.”. There’s a short pause as she breaks off, blinking away some grit, and sights again. “I can see three of them clearly now. Males, armed, antique gear, not well maintained. Mostly blades, one or two handguns. Not dressed for mining. Bandits, I’d guess, preying on the miners who come past. Opportunistic.”.

He hisses in frustration; worst possible scenario. Well, maybe not _the _worst, worst would be if the bandits were as well armed and well trained as his crew. But it’s still not the ideal inaugural mission for his little band of misfits, on unfamiliar terrain with people they haven’t learned to work with yet. He considers his options, rapidly turning tactics over in his head.

“Reckon you can drop any of ‘em before we get to the cave?”.

She sights again carefully. “Yes, one or two maybe. But the rest can retreat inside well before we reach them.” He nods; that’s his assessment too. He’s silent for a long moment more, working out alternatives, when she speaks again. “There’s another approaching. Same thing, carrying bundles, coming from further back. They can’t see him yet. If I drop him now they’ll have to come out to investigate and retrieve the stuff.”.

He nods decisively. “Do it.”. 

She’s already squeezing the trigger. He half expects a shot to ring out against the still air, but the rifle just … _coughs_ … and she absorbs the recoil with a twitch of her shoulder.

“Did it work?” he can’t help asking, half-believing that the antique must have jammed at the last second. She shoots him a glance of disdain, offering him the scope to check; there’s a figure tumbled in a heap with bags scattered next to them just this side of the curve, exactly as she said. 

“Never doubted ya.” he lies smoothly, and she rolls her eyes.

He rapidly directs two groups of two - Piet with Marta, Jacob with Raven - down to the left and right of their hideout, indicating the next set of cover they should aim for, and scoots down again next to Sully.

“No point droppin' more from here; we need to get close enough to get inside in a hurry when they come out.”. 

She nods agreement, stowing the rifle swiftly and rising to a semi-crouch behind the rock. “Let’s go ruin someone’s day.”. A Gambit invader’s battle cry, that one. He grins at the recollection, and motions to Asa to follow as he tracks down to the tumbled body, keeping to cover as he goes.

They arrive without being seen as far as he can tell; he’s uncomfortably aware the bandits could have snipers too, but Sully’s assessment of their gear suggests sloppy organisation and a reliance on luck and the layout of the weather-carved fortress they’ve claimed. His impression is strengthened when he gets a closer look at the body; it’s wearing an assortment of unwashed gear designed for people of several different sizes, with a rusted hand cannon stuck carelessly in the belt - safety off, he notes disapprovingly - and a notched shortsword lying a few feet away. If he tries to retrieve it he’ll be visible to the group in the cave mouth so he leaves it for now. Time enough later.

There’s a tinny, muffled voice coming from the body; Asa rolls it over and uncovers a small handheld comm device. The voice is squawking “ ... _come in for fuck's sake, Marco, answer your fucking comm, where the hell are you …_”. 

The electronic voice is echoed by its human source as the bandit on the other end of the channel comes closer, footsteps scuffing the grit as they approach. Whoever it is doesn’t seem to be overly concerned with stealth, so as he rounds the curve Drifter and Asa are already up above the scene, well out of his sight line. Sully meanwhile has braced herself between two rocks and drops on the bandit as he stops, sliding her blade in between his ribs before he has time to shout. He drops like a sack of laundry, slumping over his fellow. She leans down and checks her handiwork, cleaning her dagger on the edge of her victim's greasy tunic before stowing it away again, expressionless.

Drifter tries to judge the distance to the cave now; can they make it? Sully seems to think so, as she gestures, _shall we? _He nods, signalling Asa to follow, and they surge around the curve and towards the ladder. It's maybe thirty feet away, and he sees the panicked figures just inside dart forward to grab the ladder, but a scout rifle barks out from the right - _nice work, whoever that was_, his money’s on Raven. The bandits retreat as the bullets raise stinging chips of stone inches from their hands, and duck into the darkness.

Sully’s up the ladder first, then Asa, with Drifter bringing up the rear. There’s no-one in sight; their quarry must have fled to the far side of the low entrance cavern where there’s a tunnel opening lit by a couple of mining lamps. It's roughly head height and the same wide, with a slight downward slope as it curves around to the right. Drifter grins triumphantly; last time he was here, there was only the one way in and out - they must be relying on the branching cave system below to confuse their attackers. It’d work, too, if he hadn’t been laid up here long enough to know it like the back of his hand.

He motions the others to wait and steps back to the entrance to signal Jacob with more instructions; secure the entrance, get the bodies out of sight, watch the approach. Then he turns back to Sully and Asa.

“They got nowhere to go; no back door.”.

He takes a moment to look around the cavern, a rough oval thirty feet across with a shallow slope to the roof. It’s changed little from his time, other than he kept it cleaner - trying not to leave anything on show that would give away someone living here. This group have been less fastidious; trash heaped around the edges, half-eaten meals and empty bottles lying next to dozens of packs with their contents tipped out on the floor and picked over. He doesn’t see anything he recognises as coming from his stash - could be a good sign, they haven’t uncovered it yet - or maybe in the intervening centuries its already been emptied out and the evidence long gone. He grimaces at the thought. What a waste, if so.

Sully has been standing waiting for him to finish assessing the situation; now she speaks softy.

“Are we going after them?”.

He shakes his head. He could find his way, but he’s unwilling to risk dragging the others down there and running around that underground labyrinth surrounded by armed hostiles. Instead he steps to the tunnel mouth, picking up a chunk of rock on the way. He bangs it on the stone wall of the tunnel three times, like he’s knocking on their front door, and waits as the echoes die away. He can just hear frantic whispering from below, which means they’re only one level deep right now. Good. That means they can hear him.

He shouts into the darkness; “We ain't interested in you. I left some stuff here, I’ve come to get it back. That’s all. Come out and turn over your weapons, and when I’m done you’ll get ‘em back.”. _One way or another_, he adds silently to himself.

He counts to twenty in his head, slowly. No response from below; he tries again. "Last warning! Come out, or we come in.”.

Another count; still nothing. He sighs and spreads his hands in a _look-what-you-made-me-do_ gesture, then raises his arms and releases a stream of solar energy down the tunnel. As the screams die away he leans in again and enquires with casual menace, “Well now, anybody still alive? You can still walk outta here. Don't make me ask again.”.

More long seconds tick by; just as he’s about to move there’s a scraping noise and three figures slowly emerge into the pale circle of light cast by the lamps at the curve of the tunnel. Two men and one woman, as far as he can tell, all in the same grubby mismatched gear as the two they’ve seen already. He draws his gun and levels it at them as they shuffle forwards, keeping it trained on them until they’re out in the centre of the cavern, then steps forward and drops the first one to his knees, motioning the others to follow suit. They obey instantly as they take in the other weapons levelled at them, and Sully steps up to relieve them of guns and blades.

“This everybody?”.

Sullen silence; he sighs heavily.

“You all are in no position to be bein’ difficult. _Is. This. Everybody_.”.

His voice is cold; the charming showman, who tells jokes and flips coins with an easy smile, feels a long way away and a long time ago now. Asa's watching him warily, and he snarls internally. _Welcome to the frontier, kiddo_. The figure nearest him answers hastily.

“There were a couple more … you fried ‘em.”.

The bandit swallows hard, evidently on the edge of nausea, and Drifter doesn’t bother to mask his disdain. _Coward. If you can’t deal with seeing your friends dead, pick another line of work_. They’ve clearly had easy pickings up until now, and weren’t prepared to encounter anything quite like the Drifter and his friends.

With the three surviving bandits restrained and guarded by Sully, he musters the half of the crew not on lookout and leads them down into the tunnels, leaving markers as he goes so they can find the way back out if need be. He’s beyond relieved to see that his stash appears to be exactly where he left it, tucked behind a heap of rubble artfully arranged to look like a natural cave-in at the far end of the final chamber. They get to work swiftly now their goal is achieved; transmat beacons are produced, the goods are disappeared away in a blue glow, and they retrace their steps to the surface collecting anything that looks useful on the way. There isn’t much; this pathetic band of second-rate criminals seem to have had a knack for stealing dross while ignoring the hoard of real value under their noses.

They retrieve the two charred bodies from the last chamber before they reach the entrance cavern, and lay them out on the floor with the two they dropped in the ravine. Without being asked Sully sets about going through their pockets, looting them with systematic efficiency and a far away look on her face and ignoring Asa’s look of revulsion. There’s a small pile of weapons, coins and trinkets by the time she’s done; she sorts the smaller loot on to a square of cloth she’s found and turns it into a neat bundle that she stows in her pack, then creates a larger version with the weapons for someone else to carry. Finally she looks calculatingly at the three survivors. They avoid her gaze, but the one at the end, their unwilling spokesman, objects.

“You said we’d get our weapons back.”. She acknowledges that - barely - with a tilt of her head.

Drifter catches her eye, reading the question she hasn't bothered to vocalise, and nods imperceptibly. She steps up to the nearest prisoner, her hand comes up, and - when did she draw that tiny sidearm again? - he drops instantly with a bullet through his temple. The second goes down almost before the first hits the floor, and Asa finally reacts.

“What the fuck are you doing? Are you insane?”.

She stares blankly at him. “Executing murderers. We may be a long way from the Traveller, but I’m still a guardian.”. She turns to the third member of the group now; the woman, who’s cringing away and whimpering. She clutches at Sully’s leg, looking up into her face and pleading.

“Don’t kill me! I’ll come with you, I’ll work for you, I’ll do anything you want - please, _please_…”.

The titan looks down into the woman’s upturned face, considering. She’s thin, almost emaciated, but still good looking in a sharp-featured feline way; she’d clean up well. Drifter can almost imagine the thought process in Sully's mind, thinking of ways she could use her, and he wonders for a second if she’s tempted … her hand goes to the woman’s head, caressing the dirty-blond curls absently as she smiles down. Then that wicked little gun barks once, and the woman slumps down on the floor with her comrades. Sully looks up, mouth quirking bitterly at the shock and horror in some of the crew's faces, and crouches down beside the body, lifting the woman’s outflung arm and showing them all the short but vicious metal spike she’d been concealing in her palm.

“Assassin’s blade. Dead giveaway, when someone grabs you but won’t open their fist.”. She sounds grudgingly admiring, one professional killer to another, and the spike disappears into her pocket after a thoughtful inspection; it seems she’s taken a fancy to it.

* * *

Drifter orders everyone back up to the ship, placing another beacon at the edge of the cave mouth to get them there; in short order there’s just him Raven and Sully remaining and he takes a moment for one more swift visual sweep of the cave in case there’s anything they’ve missed. Raven is hanging back staring at the tumble of corpses they’ve made; he looks around for Sully, but she’s stepped out into the sunlight at the entrance, looking down off the wide lip and off to the side. He can’t see her face but the set of her shoulders indicates her attention has been caught by something.

Raven starts to say something and chokes slightly.

“What?”, he queries.

“We killed people. _Humans_, not … not Vex or Cabal or … “.

She tails off. He watches her for a long second; _process it, kid. Sometimes the bad guys look just like we do. Sometimes they ain’t any worse than us, we’re just faster to the draw_. He’s willing to give this one some space, knowing she’s developing into a survivor and a competent addition to his crew - besides, he likes her - but he can’t coddle her.

Abruptly Sully gestures to the girl. “Come here a minute.”. 

Raven obeys slowly, but her strained face makes it clear she’s seeing her hero in a different light right now. As she draws alongside the titan she stops, staring miserably at the ground. Sully lets her stew for a moment, then gestures at the edge; _look down here_. When Raven just stares at her questioningly she repeats the gesture and stands back a bit to allow the girl some room. Raven frowns and steps forward to see. 

The stench hits her before the sight does - how did they miss that before? There’s an ancient sinkhole on this side, tucked in almost under the lip of the cave edge, and the smell is rising from there. She realises they approached from the other angle, and the formation of the pit directs the odour up and away in the other direction, carried off by the wind that scours over the top of it. She balks in horror as she identifies the scattered shapes below; human remains, days or weeks old or more; presumably victims tossed off the edge like trash once the bandits had finished with them. She swallows hard and steps back, still not meeting the titan’s eye. When she finally forms a sentence, her voice shakes.

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?”.

Sully shrugs. “I can't tell you how to feel. But things aren’t always black and white.”. 

He can see Raven turning the lesson over in her mind, trying to adjust to this new view of the woman she’s idolised, trying to work out if she’s been a fool. She doesn’t care about the bandits, he realises, just whether she’s made a mistake in wanting to get close to the titan; working out whether she’s tangled up with someone who’s going to be a danger to her. _Welcome to the club, sister_.

“All done? Time to go.” he firmly ends the teaching moment, chivvying them to the transmat beacon and giving Maj the signal.

* * *

The mood back on board is tense, with some of the Dredgens flinching out of Sully’s path as they move about on their assigned tasks; for all that they’re experienced killers themselves, it’s clear she’s unsettled them with those ruthless executions. For Drifter's part, he's more than satisfied - as long as she's on his side, she can be as brutal as she likes. _Do what ya gotta do. That's what I hired ya for_. As for the rest of them, well, if they can't get past this they'll be little use to him when the Darkness falls again.

To keep them occupied he sets them to sorting through the retrieved stash, making sure it’s all still in good order before it’s stowed in the holds. It's mostly scraps of Golden Age tech somehow left behind at the end of the terraforming process, comms gear and control panels for long-lost machinery. When he first picked it up he’d intended to break it up and sell it off for a handsome profit; now the time is getting close when there won’t be any economy for it, so he needs to work out how to get it to market and exchange it for something he’ll have more use for in the coming days. He settles down to work the comm, pulling up trading stats and route options to the nearest likely outlet.

As a distraction tactic it doesn’t entirely work; he can hear the hushed conversation floating over as they do the stocktake, odd snatches reaching him - “ … t_otal psychopath … just killed them without a word ..._”, making him smile bitterly. They’re debating Sully. The subject of this analysis is placidly cleaning her weapons at the mess table, totally engrossed in the routine. Well, not totally; he sees her eyes gleam for a moment as she catches another fragment from the hold; “ … _see their face when they pocketed that blade? totally feral_ …”.

Jacob emerges, looking exasperated - he’s been down there in that tense atmosphere for nearly an hour, and he’s in desperate need of a break. He sits opposite Sully, watching what she’s doing for a few seconds, then reaches his hand towards the sidearm, looking up for permission; “May I …?”. She nods, and he picks up the weapon to have a closer look. “Haven’t seen one like this before; is that a Suros frame …? But the muzzle looks odd.”.

She nods, pointing at the breech; “Shortened to make it more compact; cut the action down to fit the breech, and added back a bit of length on the muzzle to allow for the silencer.”.

He turns it over and over in his hands. “This is _evil_.”. He sounds admiring rather than horrified, and she grins wickedly at his open appreciation. 

“Speaking of which …”, _oh yeah kid, very smooth_, “they’re a little spooked down there.”. She pulls a _fair-enough_ face and carries on oiling the sniper’s firing mechanism. She doesn’t seem interested in defending her actions further - if at all.

“They’re gonna see more like that, where we’re goin’”; Drifter chimes in. “They’ll get used to it, or they’ll drop out and run back to the City. Either way …” and he shrugs to indicate it’ll work out somehow. “Wanna ask me again why we need ‘em on the crew?”, and he gestures at Sully.

“No, I’m long since convinced, thanks.” Jacob hastily assures him, and he gets up to go back and oversee the crew. The whispering has stopped, or got so quiet they can’t catch it any more, and he feels like a parent going to check on children who’ve suddenly gone suspiciously quiet. Leadership isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, sometimes.


	23. Drifter's Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head between Sully and Marta; and Drifter realises he's in deeper than he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ancient Greeks did indeed have seven different words to describe love; even I couldn't work out which one Sully would pick. We've reached the point in the story where the characters are telling me what to say rather than the other way around :s

With the new gear safely stowed and secured, everyone turns to their usual chores until meal time and the atmosphere returns to something like normal. Hard to say what normal _is_, with everyone being so new to working together, but there’s something of a rhythm developing as people get the hang of moving around the cramped space without getting in each others’ way. Spooked or not, they all seem to be getting along just fine. Occasional murmurs of conversation float across, innocuous stuff - _where does this belong, who’s got the list, if you’re going that way take this for me_ \- and Drifter sits back, satisfied. It’ll be okay.

Cook duty for the day falls to Asa; when the boy calls everyone to eat he puts aside his route calculations and takes his place in the mess, pulling his plate towards him impatiently. Stew again, the tinned staple he’s well accustomed to living on - and a more appealing option than many he’s been driven to, at that. By the unenthusiastic faces around the table it looks like most of the crew feels differently, and he snickers.

“I’ll finish anything y'all don't want.” he offers with a gleeful smile, and they roll their eyes as they wave him off and tuck in, evidently not so picky that they’re willing to go hungry. Sully’s already finished hers, standing up leaning against the counter to eat; he figures she’s used to surviving on whatever turns up, same as him. He catches her eye and winks. The faintest of smirks crosses her face, and he grins down into his plate as he forks up his next mouthful.

There’s a faint petulant “huh” from beside him and he looks up sharply to see Marta glaring at the titan, eyes narrowed like a cat; playground stuff.

“Somethin on yer mind?” he enquires casually. 

She glares for a moment more, then turns a far more amenable face towards him.

“Since you ask - I think we should get rid of the psycho at the next stop.”.

He feels a surge of anger; just when things are settling, she’s making trouble again - and is she seriously trying to imply she has a say in the crew roster …? The room goes still as everyone senses the sudden change in his mood, and he holds Marta’s gaze for a beat before granting her a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Well, I guess I asked - but the answer is ’No'.”. His tone is mild, but there’s no way she could mistake it for friendly. But then, he realises, he’d forgotten how self-absorbed she can be.

“It’s not just me though,” she protests. "Everybody’s thinking it - but nobody’s brave enough to say it to your face.”.

She preens slightly, as if her outspoken spite is somehow a mark of character strength. Drifter stares fixedly at her for a second more before turning back with an easy shrug.

“Is that right? Hands up anyone who agrees. No repercussions, I guarantee - I just wanna know.”. He smiles amiably around the table to reinforce the promise, and waits patiently. No hands go up. In fact nobody so much as twitches, and the looks on their faces suggest Marta has seriously overstated their support for what she’s saying.

“Well now, look at that;”, he murmurs in mock surprise. “Okay, next question - who all here thinks they got a say in who’s on the crew?”. 

Nobody moves except Jacob, still shovelling stew into his face, who raises his free hand casually without looking up. Even Sully keeps her hand down, and for just a second he wonders why ... then he gets it. She’s reinforcing his authority - and Jacob’s - by letting this play out. He offers up a silent prayer of thanks to whatever cosmic entity saw fit to make her path cross with his - and the rookie too, come to that. He’s uncomfortably aware he doesn’t entirely deserve the luck, or the loyalty, they both bring him. He waits for Jacob to finish his mouthful before delivering his next line.

“Kid, you got a problem with Sully bein’ on the crew?”.

“As long as they don’t try to rip my head off again, we’re good.”. 

He carries on eating, unconcerned; there’s a ripple of nervous laughter around the table, as if they’re not sure if he’s joking or not, and Sully catches his eye and blows him a sardonic kiss. He grins around his mouthful of food and flips her the bird, and the laughter ripples again, louder and more relaxed this time.

Drifter smiles indulgently at the interplay before he turns his attention back to Marta, his warm expression quickly fading to cold disinterest. “Looks like you’re the only one with a problem, princess. Get over it.”.

She scowls and drops her gaze, furious at the putdown. There are suppressed sniggers around the table and she makes an impatient gesture at her fellow Dredgens, daring them to laugh at her openly. Nobody does, but it’s clear none of them are going to come to her defence either.

* * *

For some reason he can’t identify Drifter wakes early the next day, before morning call, and frowns fuzzily as he opens his eyes. Sully isn't snuggled against him as he’s come to expect; she’s not even next to him - or rather she is, but she’s at the limit of the other side of the narrow bed, almost up against the wall, stretched out on her front and engrossed in her book. He wants to reach out for her and grab a moment before the day starts, but she’s absorbed in the text; he settles for watching her face as she reads, unguarded and unaware, itching to touch her but not wanting to disturb her peaceful moment. Not wanting to ruin this perfect view.

He’s still watching surreptitiously when there’s a tap from outside and Jacob opens the door a crack to peer in. “Morning.” he murmurs, and the door closes firmly as he moves back to the bridge. She blinks at the interruption and her face sharpens somehow, closing off and losing the faraway look.

“Good book, huh?”, he murmurs, stretching lazily. "I couldn’t make head nor tail of it.”.

The bed creaks as she sits up to mark her page and stow the book back on the shelf. “It’s in Greek.”.

“No shit? I heard once the Greeks had a word for everythin’. I heard they had fifteen different words for love, and only one for war.”.

She laughs at that; “Seven. Seven words for seven different types of love. And this book is full of war, so they had no shortage of words for that.”.

She starts to climb over him to get out of the pod; he seizes his opportunity and grabs her hips before she can move off him, pressing up so she can feel his hopeful semi-erection and smirking up at her suggestively. She hesitates for a moment before glancing meaningfully at the wall on Marta’s side, and he releases her with an exaggerated gesture of surrender. _Yeah, bad idea. Dammit, not even a kiss to start the day_ ... His head flops back against the thin pillow in frustration; he wonders if he has time to take himself in hand and relieve his tension, but decides he’ll settle for a cold shower instead if he hasn’t got it under control by the time he’s had coffee.

* * *

He doesn’t stand a chance. The silent guardian is moving around the galley putting together her breakfast, and her sweatpants are riding down low on her hips so he can see glimpses of the smooth skin below her vest. The gap gapes as she reaches up for something from the overhead locker, exposing the curve of her hips just where he likes to grip when she rides him … _dammit_; his hands twitch with the remembered feel of her, of his fingers digging into her soft flesh. He hastily covers his face with his hands to distract himself, rubbing his eyes as if to wipe away sleep.

When he looks up she’s moved away and been replaced by Marta, eyes narrowed as she watches Sully head to her usual perch at the comm. The titan’s gender - or rather their biology - is obvious this morning, the loose vest suggesting rather than disguising the form underneath, and it looks like the redhead is finally realising there's potential competition there.

She reacts entirely predictably; making sure to place herself in Drifter’s line of sight as much as possible as she heads to get her own breakfast, arching her back and swinging her hips, trailing her fingers along the counter as she slowly moves along to collect cutlery, casting coy glances over at him to see if he’s watching. He keeps his eyes fixed on his coffee, forcing himself to breathe evenly to fight the dual tensions, fury and frustration boiling up in tandem. 

* * *

One brief ice-cold shower later he’s mostly recovered his balance, confident he can keep it under control for a few more days. He has some ideas for stopping places where he can grab some alone time with his silver girl, and pulls together three route options that’ll accommodate that as well as bringing him close to somewhere to offload some of these control panels they’ve picked up at the mining settlement. He’s mulling over the pros and cons of each when he becomes aware of a commotion from the sleeping quarters corridor; several sets of footsteps are heading down there and he’s on his feet in a flash to follow. He’s got a bad idea he knows what’s going on.

He’s right, though it’s nowhere near as bad as he was expecting. Sully is backed up towards the far end of the corridor, Marta in front of her with one of her blades held close to the titan’s cheek. He pulls up short as he takes in the situation, looking from one to the other and back again to judge likely outcomes if he interferes. Marta ignores him; she’s focused on the guardian in front of her, ugly rage distorting her face as she grips the knife. Sounds like she’s continuing a conversation, or a rant.

“You hear me, _freak_? I don’t know what game you think you’re playing, but there’s no way in hell he wants a psycho like you. He needs a real woman, and you need to back the fuck off.”.

Sully is just staring back, and he’s seen that look in her eye before. It's something of the indulgent way she looked down at the furious girl at the bar on Ceres, confident she wasn’t in real danger; then with a sudden chill he finds a more accurate comparison - the same thoughtful expression she had when she was looking down at the woman she executed at the bandit camp. He can almost see her considering the possible future usefulness of the redhead; if she comes up with a null scenario it can’t bode well for Marta.

Sully suddenly moves; not particularly aggressively, just leaning forward a fraction so the point of Marta’s blade makes contact with her skin, then deliberately jerking her head so that it slices her cheek. A welt forms and quickly fills up with blood; she raises her arms to brace against the low corridor ceiling and tilts her head with a smile, as if this is a game. _Your turn_, she seems to be saying.

Marta pulls back in alarm, shocked out of her uncomplicated fury by the realisation that the situation is getting away from her. Like all the Dredgens she’s seen a lot of combat, but she’s neither a subtle person nor accustomed to dealing with others’ subtlety; her knife normally settles most arguments to her satisfaction. She defaults to what she knows, rocking back and shifting her grip on the knife to a defensive hold, ready to slash if the titan moves again.

Drifter moves swiftly, pushing through the crowd and twisting her arm painfully until she drops the blade with a curse. Lightbearer she might be, but she’s no match for his wiry strength. He keeps twisting even after she’s been disarmed, and she brings her other hand up to clutch at his front, pleading. He disengages her hand and turns her to face Sully again, who’s still smiling that distant smile, ignoring the blood tracing down her face. He forces Marta’s chin up and back around so she’s looking at the titan, snarling into her ear, “I told you not to make trouble.”. Then he throws her down on the corridor floor and steps back, disgusted.

There’s an interested audience now, all hanging on every word as he rounds to take them all in and speaks again to Marta; loud enough to carry though, he needs them all to hear this.

“Normally I’d say no fightin’ on board … unless you do it up in the mess where we can all watch and make book, o'course”. He grins as if that’s the funniest joke he ever made, but nobody laughs. No matter - that was just a set up for his next line. He fixes Marta with a solemn stare and continues; “In your case though … don’t bother. Nobody’s gonna waste their glimmer bettin’ on you.”.

She scowls furiously, ready to object, and he firmly halts her with a shushing gesture. “Listen up! If yer gonna pick fights with the hero, there's some things you should know.”.

He raises both arms like a ringmaster; the showman is back. Sully leans back easily against the wall as he ticks off a finger, catching Jacob’s reminiscent grin from the back of the huddle as he does.

“_One!_” he indicates the titan, "They don't scare … don’t threaten ‘em unless you mean to follow through; nobody likes a tease.”. He winks at Raven, who’s looking horrified mixed with fascinated, and ticks off another finger.

“_Two!_ You ain’t gonna beat ‘em in a fair fight.”. This directly at Marta, mock-sorrowful. He holds her gaze scornfully for a beat then ticks off another finger.

“_Three!_ “ he shrugs, "… doesn’t matter, they don't fight fair anyway. They just keep comin’ ’til you’re dead.”. Sully grins at Jacob’s muttered “S'right.", flicking out her tongue to catch the trickle of blood running down her lip. He ticks off the last finger.

“_Four_ …” and he’s quieter now as he looks down at Marta again, “Seems you got hold of a wrong idea, princess. You’re crew, nothing more. Quit anglin' to be the Drifter’s girl. That position was permanently filled - a _long_ time ago.”. He lets that sink in for a second, then sweeps the crowd with a furious glare to be sure everyone has got the point before turning on his heel and slamming his way back up to the bridge.

Everyone watches him go in stunned silence. Jacob raises his eyes questioningly to Sully, a faint nod in her direction; _does he mean you?_ She shakes her head just as subtly, bringing her hands together with the thumbs locked and the fingers spread out either side like a butterfly. He gets it after a second; _the emissary_.

* * *

When Marta finally picks herself up off the floor and pulls herself together, she goes to perform her chores half-heartedly in bleak silence and then retreats to her sleep pod. Everyone else carries on as normal, if anything more cheerful than before. Muted conversations around the mess table establish that she’s been a pain in the ass the whole way out to the rendezvous, boasting about her supposed special relationship with the Drifter and threatening anyone who scoffed at her, and no-one is sorry to see her brought back to reality. There’s no sympathy for her.

Drifter has to force himself not to run after Sully to check how she is; she calmly calls up her ghost to heal the self-inflicted scratch, washes the blood off her face, changes her shirt, does her chores as if nothing had happened. Then she disappears down to the workshop in the hold and stays there. She’s been gone for a couple of hours when he finally gives in and goes to see what's what.

He finds her fitting a piece of steel into a jig ready for machining, concentrating on getting it lined up just right, but at the sound of his footsteps she looks up. He hesitates on the threshold as if asking for permission to enter; she acknowledges him with a neutral nod and looks back down at her work. Not quite an invitation, but he’ll take it. He comes forward and leans against the wall beside her with his arms folded, looking at her with a touch of apprehension. Looks like ‘one of these days’ is going to be today. He’d better figure out what he wants to say, and quickly.

“You know I meant you, right?”.

She looks up with a faint questioning frown.

“When I said the position was filled; you know I was talking about you, right?”.

The frown deepens as she holds his gaze. “No … I didn’t.”.

He peers into her face, looking for some sign that she’s kidding. “What - who else would I mean?”.

“I assumed you made that up to get her off your back. Or if you meant a real person, I thought it would be Orin.”.

At the mention of the emissary’s old name he stiffens, and his face twists in something like pain. “Orin … “ he breathes the name as if he’d forgotten what it meant; he sighs heavily. “ … Nah. Ancient history.”. He makes a firm negating gesture. “Whatever she was to me, or me to her, that ended the day she turned her back on me and went chasin' the Nine.”.

“Oh.”, is all the response he gets.

“Is that all you’re gonna say?”.

She smiles distractedly, putting aside what she was working on and staring at the wall in front of her. “I don't know what else to say. I wasn’t expecting that.”.

He straightens up, trying to read her reaction. There’s no particular emotion he can identify with certainty, just … processing. Words boil up in his head and he fights to keep them from spilling out. _I thought you knew, dammit. I though you knew how I felt, I thought you felt it too, I thought …_

“I thought we had somethin'.” he ventures aloud. “I thought … you’n’me … I thought that was somethin’.”. It’s weak, a pale shadow of what he wants to express, but her guarded blankness is making him wary.

She pauses before answering judiciously, “It is … but I don’t know _what_ it is. I couldn’t put a name to it. But - it’s not nothing.”.

He opens his mouth and closes it again, impatiently dismissing the words he was about to say. This is not the moment for declarations of - _don’t say the word don’t say it_ \- whatever, this isn't the time.

“What, your little book ain’t got a word for it? Or can’t you pick one?”.

_Fuck_. That was supposed to come out as lighthearted banter; he curses internally at the desperation in his tone, and the sudden shuttering of her expression. Damn it to hell, he didn't even _say_ the L-word and she just shut down. He clamps down on his rising panic and salvages a casual swagger from somewhere.

“Well - you want the job or not? Drifter’s girl, whaddya say? Long hours, constant danger, and the pay sucks.”.

He indicates himself up and down with a salesman's flourish and he’s rewarded at last by her filthy laugh; _ah, that’s better. _He loves that sound, when he manages to pull it out of her; when she drops her careful poise. She relaxes again, the moment of tension safely past.

“I hear the perks are fucking amazing though.” she murmurs, and he pulls her close with a triumphant smirk.

“You know it, darlin’.”, and he kisses her thoroughly before releasing her and checking hastily behind him for observers. Seems they’re safe for the moment. He closes in for more; might as well take advantage. She melts against him just as he’s been fantasising about these past few days, wrapping her arms around him and playing her nails up and down the back of his neck just as he likes it, and he deepens the kiss and grips her hips to grind gently against her. When he finally pulls back he’s breathing heavily; he swallows and disengages regretfully. _Gonna need another cold shower._

It’s not until much later, in the middle of his watch, that he realises she didn’t exactly say _yes_. He comforts himself that she didn’t exactly say _no_ either; he can work with that. And the other discussion - well, that’ll have to wait until she wants to hear it.


	24. Visions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some tensions settle down, and others rise up as Drifter's crew gets close to the turning point of their trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know I had a whole plot line worked out, and then it didn't seem to work after all. Frantically rewriting from this point onwards, and hoping to weave in more canon and lore as we progress through Shadowkeep and find out more. Keep telling me what you like, and I'll keep building on it for future chapters :)

Nearing their next stop, he starts to go over his plans for the extraction - _plans_ plural, because there’s always some flex required depending on what they find in their way. Although, he reflects, these days his response to unexpected difficulties is to point his silver titan at them until they go away. She wasn’t wrong when she said it’d work out somehow. Of course, one of these days they’ll come up against something she can’t handle, not single-handed anyway. His dark dreams have all but faded since he’s had her within arm’s reach every night, but he hasn’t forgotten what all this is in aid of. Darkness is coming; he needs to be ready.

By rights there should be more tension on board after the fight; but if anything it’s cleared the air. Marta seems to be the only one suffering from any lingering awkwardness, and since everyone has taken to more or less ignoring her she’s left to sulk at her leisure. She reacts by retreating into her pod whenever she has no duties in the shared space, and nobody misses her. Drifter's actively looking for an opportunity to put her ashore and leave her behind now, except he can’t think of any place he hates enough to inflict her on it. Maybe he should just drop her back at the Tower; the Vanguard are more than welcome to her. He chuckles to himself at the mental image of dropping her off at Zavala’s door like an unwanted donation.

The rest of the crew are entirely settled into a comfortable routine, a week or so in transit giving them time to process their reactions to seeing how Sully dealt with the bandits. Opinions shift from ‘that was terrifying’ to ‘that was the right thing to do’ as hindsight kicks in; not to mention the slow realisation that if the Last City should ever fall, that’s the future they’re going to have to deal with, subsistence living and the strong preying on the weak. Suddenly Drifter’s Dark Age yarns about the warlords and the Pilgrim Guard don’t seem so fantastic after all.

* * *

But dwelling on the coming turmoil was a mistake; the dreams come back that night, the bad ones. Charred earth, smoking ruins, twisted tangles of human remains here and there, and everywhere the choking stench of ash and decay. Him standing up on high ground, not a living soul in sight. The flattened pyramids of the Darkness ships are hanging in the sky, sullen clouds of destruction, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before they come for him. He has nothing and no-one to help him.

There’s a faint blue glow behind him and he half-turns with a grimace.

“You again.”.

The emissary’s blank gaze doesn’t falter. She may speak with Orin’s voice, but he has to remind himself she’s not Orin. The woman who used to be his best friend gave up her identity to get answers, and she never came back ... who even knows if she got what she was looking for.

“At the end there will be no-one with you. You must prepare yourself for that.”.

He ignores her. She’s possibly right, but he isn’t going to feel any better talking about it.

“You will walk the path the Nine have laid for you. There is no path for anyone else.”.

He turns at that. “You’re mighty keen to get that across - I know not everyone’s gonna make it. What’s buggin' ya now?”.

She blinks slowly. “The silver guardian.”. A chill runs through him.

“_No_. They’ll survive, with or without me, and you can go to hell.”. He turns his back. The glow fades, and he’s alone again at the end of the world. 

* * *

The smell of burning is still in his nostrils when he wakes; he frowns and clutches reflexively, trying to shake off sleep and defend himself, the dreamscape still vivid behind his eyes. His fingers meet warm flesh, soft covers, and his eyes spring open in confusion. The titan is watching him with concern, a tiny crease between her brows as she brings a hand up to stroke soothing circles on his shoulder. 

He stares bleakly at nothing; letting her touch ground him back in the here and now, trying to shake the gripping fear hanging over from the dream. She seems to sense that he doesn’t want to talk about it; just keeps circling with her fingertips and letting him process. He finally stirs and looks at her.

“What time is it?”.

“Early yet; at least an hour to wake-up call.”.

“Good.”. He pulls her close and buries his face in her neck, breathing her in like the smell of her can cleanse him somehow. For the first time since they’ve had the full crew aboard he feels free to touch her, feeling his body responding to her proximity. He pulls away to look at her hungrily.

“Silver girl,” he whispers, “how ‘bout you help me shake off these blues?”.

She smiles and pulls him down for a kiss; that’s all the answer he needs. He sheds his sleepwear eagerly, helping her do the same, falling back against her nakedness with a satisfied sigh and running his hands up her body. There’s no room for acrobatic sex in these tiny pods so he just settles between her thighs and slides into her, bracing against the wall with one hand. “Oh …“ she moans softly, and he shivers. _Damn, that sounds so sweet …_

She gathers him in and angles her hips, helping him meet her sweet spot; he starts to move gently, keeping his face against her skin to muffle his groans as his pleasure builds. She encourages him with the softest of sounds, trying not to disturb their neighbours, and clenches her fingers in his hair as his pace increases. She arches back with a silent scream as she comes; his hips stutter in their rhythm momentarily before he follows her over the edge. He lets out one quiet whimper, congratulating himself on his control as he falls back on top of her.

He’s quiet for a long while, feeling the pleasant buzz and letting it wash away the tension from the dream. Eventually he realises he’s probably crushing her, though she hasn’t complained, and he shifts to lie beside her. Her legs tangle with his, an arm circles his waist, and she pulls herself close to his chest; perfectly at ease, perfectly still apart from her steady breathing. He wraps an arm around her and plays with her short hair, twisting the pale strands through his fingers gently. Then they just lie like that, wrapped in each other, for the quiet hour before they hear the others starting to move.

The welcome release puts a smile on his face for the whole of the morning; even Marta’s black scowl can’t dislodge it. She must have heard them … well, she won't be his problem for much longer, he comforts himself. If she starts anything now he’ll put her off at the next stop, about as far from home as it’s possible to get, and see how she likes that. He turns to his plans again, fighting the urge to grin.

* * *

He dreams again the following night; the same thing, the same scene, and the emissary floating behind him. 

“Whatever you got to say, I don’t wanna hear it.”. 

“They are not for you.”.

His brows snap together at the repetition of Ikora’s words. “That ain’t for you to decide.”, he snarls.

“Not me. The Nine.”.

He rounds on her at that. “Is that right? Seems like everybody’s makin' plans for 'em. You ever ask what they want?”. The emissary blinks; seems he’s touched a nerve. He goes on; “You chose this, Orin, I won’t ever forget even if you do. You walked away and chased this - whatever the hell this is that you are now. They ain’t so desperate to be part of it.”.

Still no response; but suddenly that blank face almost seems … uncertain. He laughs bitterly.

“They told y’all to go to hell, didn’t they? I bet they did.”.

Finally the emissary speaks. “They will reconsider.”.

“Hah! No, they won’t. They're stronger than you were. They don’t go chasin' other people to tell 'em who they're supposed to be.”.

It feels good to vent like this; even if it’s only a dream, it’s closure of a sort. He shakes his head, exasperated, and turns his back again. “Get lost, Orin. I got nothin’ more to say to you.”.

* * *

He wakes with a start in total darkness, and flings out an arm … lets out a shaky breath when he feels Sully next to him. He wraps himself around her and lets the feel of her calm him again; she stirs and slides her hand along his arm to lace her fingers with his.

“Bad dream?” she murmurs, and he just nods imperceptibly in the darkness. “Visions. The emissary. Spoutin' her usual bullshit.”.

She turns to face him and settles again in his arms. “You know she shows you the worst possible interpretation of everything? We’d hear her gloating about it in the Haul. Using your fear to manipulate you.”.

He stiffens. “That figures.”. A swirl of memories surface from the long-dead friendship; the hours they’d spend talking, pouring out their fears and dreams, and the promises they’d made to look out for each other. Worthless now. He squeezes his eyes shut furiously, blinking away the moisture threatening to well up. _No tears for Orin. No tears again, ever._ Gentle fingers curl against his chest, ruffling the dark hair there, and he swallows. This one … this one he might cry over.

He has to know; “The Nine try makin' you an offer?”.

“Oh yes. Several times. Nothing that appeals.”. She sounds entirely unconcerned, as if they were discussing dinner choices or something equally trivial.

He tightens his grip. “Sounds like they ain’t given up.”.

She shrugs. “They can please themselves. They have nothing I want.”. She brings her face close to his in the darkness, and he sees her eyes gleam faintly. “_You_, on the other hand …” and he grins as her hand traces down his flank. 

“Yes, _ma’am_.”.


	25. Letters From The Front

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at the Tower - how are the Vanguard getting on ...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course Sully had an Eliksni name :) I've used this resource https://errata.ishtar-collective.net/the-fallen-language/ to create a likely version of 'Scout' in Eliksni. the syllable 'dan' has been translated as 'going ahead' or 'forward', so I chose 'Danik' as a feasible personal name meaning 'the one who goes ahead'.

* * *

* * *

_Evan sights carefully down the barrel, totally focused on the tiny figure moving in the distance; he's almost got the perfect headshot lined up, another kill for his tally if the damned bug will just move over a little more ... But in his pursuit of yet another pelt h_ _e hasn't been paying attention to his surroundings - sudden footsteps scuff the dirt next to him and he jumps as the survey-issue boots send sprays of dust into his line of sight. He turns to glare up at the figure standing over him and smirking at how easy he was to surprise._

_“What the fuck, Dan?”, he hisses, and their pale grey eyes crinkle further in amusement. _

_"I hope they never send you into real combat; we'd all have been murdered while you were lining up that shot. Anyway ...", they point at the distant group of Eliksni, “that's evidence of prior settlement. We’re moving out to survey the next location."._

_"What? We were supposed to secure the site.”._

_"We’re supposed to secure the site if it’s unoccupied.”. _

_“Oh, come on - giant alien bugs don’t count.”._

_Danik's smile fades and they go still, assessing him with a measuring stare. After slightly too long a pause they speak again in a flat, cold tone._

_“Push your luck, and those giant alien bugs will rip your arm off and beat you to death with the wet end; then we’ll see who counts. Get moving.”. _

_Evan recognises an order when he hears it, even if he and the scout are technically the same rank; he obediently stows his rifle and stands up, dusting off his front and striding to catch up the rest of the advance team as they head away down the track. _

_“For fuck’s sake, it’s a perfectly good site!”, he huffs. “What’s their problem? Are they always this uptight?”. He flaps an outraged hand at the slight androgynous figure bringing up the rear, and the others exchange meaningful glances. Stef sighs and hangs back a moment so Evan can catch up, leaning in so he can murmur confidentially. _

_“Not always, no. Ever wonder why everyone calls them ‘Feral’?”._

_“Yeah, I thought it meant they’re, like, wild in bed or something.”. _

_“Couldn't possibly comment …” murmurs Amelie, a few feet ahead, and a snigger ripples through the column. The petite brunette shares the scout’s bed from time to time, though they’re not strictly a couple. Stef gives her a look and turns pointedly back to the topic at hand._

_“That’s a whole other discussion. Anyway - I can't believe you haven’t heard the story. Our Danik, they're the famous feral child raised by aliens. Giant alien bugs, to be precise. Like those ones you were itching to use for target practice.”._

_“That’s them? … oh. Fuck.”. _

_Evan looks blank for a second, belatedly processing the enormity of the error he just avoided. Steff isn’t unsympathetic - Evan isn’t the first overenthusiastic military brat drafted into the survey programme that they’ve had to break in, and he’s far from the worst they’ve had to deal with. He might just work out … if he manages not to get his arms ripped off in the first week, that is._

_"Yeah, that's them. And, between you and me? - they could rip your arm off without any help from the bugs … I’d watch my step if I were you.”._

_“Got it.”. Evan turns back for a moment to take another look at Danik, trying to reconcile the calm, professional survey scout with the hyperactive wildman from the stories he’s heard, and fails. Then he catches the unsettling half-smile they’re still wearing as they watch him and he hastily turns back, trying to ignore the sudden chill down his spine. Not all threat displays involve guns._

* * *

* * *

Another stack of data pads lands in front of Zavala, and he sighs heavily. 

“More reports?”. 

The unlucky intelligence officer tasked with delivering the latest batch freezes mid-step, eyeing the door to freedom wistfully. 

“Yes sir. Sorry, sir. There’s a lot going on right now.”.

The Vanguard commander waves resigned acknowledgement; there’s always a lot going on, but these days there seems to be a lot more of a lot going on than there should be, and none of it makes any sense. The officer hesitates for a moment more, listening to an incoming message on his comm.

“Also - Ikora Rey has asked if you have a moment, whenever you’re ready.”.

Zavala digests this; w_henever you’re ready_ from Ikora means _right now_, if not sooner - he's not foolish enough to interpret it any other way, not after all these years of working with her. He pushes himself back from the table and abandons the data pads without a backward glance.

* * *

He finds her in her serene study; not the usual venue for their discussions, except in exceptional circumstances, but he’s glad this appears to be one of those occasions even if means she has something on her mind. He almost always leaves this space calmer than when he entered it, whether by her careful choice of decor or some other element of her aura he’s not sure. But he’ll take whatever calming influences he can get, these days.

She’s standing in the far corner as he comes through the door, straightening some ornaments after retrieving a book from the shelf behind them. She doesn’t waste time with preambles.

"Have you heard anything?”.

He doesn’t need to ask what she means; she’s asked the same question every time she’s seen him, ever since that last disastrous meeting with the silver titan. 

"Nothing. They’ve just … disappeared. I don’t even know if they’re within message range.”.

“You have been trying, then?”.

She crosses the room towards him, gesturing with the hand still holding the book that he should take a seat, and he gratefully sinks into the high-backed chair opposite her as she sits down.

“Naturally - ever since they left. I owe them an apology, at the very least. And this latest report of yours about Eris … we need them back here and ready to fight.”.

Ikora nods thoughtfully, a crease between her brows appearing at the mention of Eris.

"I’ve already sent some of our people in to investigate; we’ll know soon enough what we’re facing.”.

She falls silent, but the conversation isn’t over; the frown deepens as she chooses her next words carefully. 

"I wanted to say something to you … this situation ... "; she hesitates. "I believe you still blame yourself for them leaving. It is time for you to get past that. If they accept your apology they will be back, and if they don’t - well. We must accept it, and we will have to continue without them.”.

He's not sure if he heard her right - there can be no question that his hasty words were the trigger for the titan leaving the City.

“Of course I blame myself. How could I not?”. 

“The timing could be coincidental - who knows what else led up to that decision? We know the Drifter had been working on them for months before that. I should never had allowed him into the Tower - if I’d known he’d target them …”. She breaks off, staring bleakly at the book she’s still holding, and goes on. "But with hindsight - we should have known. Everybody targets them. _We_ target them. They absorb the darkness and are unchanged. They talk to the Nine and are unswayed. They turn our enemies to friends. Who could look at what they can do and not want them on their side? We are as guilty as anyone else who aims to use them for their own ends.”.

Zavala makes a hasty gesture of denial. “_No_. It is not the same. We are -“.

She cuts him off. “We are no better than anyone else when it comes to using them. We convince ourselves we are the only ones who can protect humanity, in the way we have defined - what if they see more clearly than we do? They have shown themselves to be right time and time again. I am happy to be wrong, if it means we win overall. Maybe they are exactly where they should be, right now.”.

He subsides, unable to argue the point. She could well be right, and he knows it. After a moment more of uncomfortable silence she looks back down at the book in her hand as if she'd forgotten it was there, and places it on the table between them. "I thought you might find this interesting.".

He fidgets back in his seat, as if rejecting both the offer and the assumption. "What is it?".

Ikora smiles wryly; she knows he has little time for recreational reading these days, even if he could relax long enough to create some.

"It's a collection of official reports and letters home from one of the first wave of early Golden Age colonies. Apparently one of the only ones ever to establish friendly relations with the Fallen, before the Collapse. I thought it might give you some insight into the situation with Sully.". 

Mystified, he takes the book and turns it over in his hands, reading the title with a faint sneer. "'_The Pathfinder_'. Hm. I have no doubt it is mostly fiction; I outgrew adventure stories many years ago.". 

Ikora smiles faintly to herself. "I'm sure you did. But I think you will like this one.".

He takes the book to be polite, and excuses himself as soon as he can.

* * *

Several hours pass as he works his way down the pile of messages, reports and scans demanding his attention. The cup at his elbow has long since gone cold, like the three before it, and he sighs as he wraps his hand around the ceramic to test the temperature and debates which is more distasteful - drinking stone-cold coffee, or having to ask for yet another one to be remade for him by his overworked staff. He settles for the former; at least that way he's the only one made uncomfortable.

As he downs the cup's contents he surveys his desk; nothing left to deal with right this second apart from ... ah. The only thing left is Ikora's book. He pulls it towards him and scans the front again before pushing it back aside with a grimace. He knows she's lent it to him with the best of intentions, but - he doesn't _need_ to read it. He might, just for curiosity's sake, but the message in it is redundant. He already knows the titan is a pathfinder, someone who finds the way for others to follow. He already knows they've come from a place of coexistence and tolerance unimaginable to him, and to many other guardians. It may even be this colony mentioned in the book, it may be some other, that's immaterial. But the most important point is this; he already knows what he has to do, and how. He knows how to be a decent person, how to make the genuine apology the titan has every right to expect. He doesn't need to read the book to teach him that.

He sits back, closing his eyes in concentration, and calls up his ghost.

"I need to record a voice message.".

The little drone rises up to hover in front of him and beeps faintly to signal it's recording; he considers for a second then begins speaking.

"Guardian ... I have no way of knowing if these messages are even reaching you - but I continue to send them, in the hopes that one of them does. I offer my apologies once again for the way our last meeting ended; for my unforgivable slur on your friend, and on his people - I realise now I let my prejudices get the better of me. And I apologise for losing my temper over something I had no right to demand of you."

He pauses to gather his thoughts. Is there more to say? Ah yes ...

"I hope you know you may return to us whenever you wish. And I hope that day will come sooner rather than later - you should know that new threats are springing up by the day ... we need you, now more than ever. But the choice is yours, always.".

He opens his eyes and stares at the wall. "End recording. Transmit through the usual channels, encrypted, eyes-only.".


	26. Cousins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another stop, another stash, another place where Sully has friends; it's becoming obvious that there's far more to their history than the official version. And as much as Drifter benefits from their friendships, his paranoia gets the better of him.

Drifter mumbles in sleepy protest as he hears the sound of Jacob's footsteps approaching the pod door; dammit, time to get up already? _Don't wanna_, he silently complains, and resolutely tightens his grip on Sully as the door opens a sliver. 

"Morning call.", Jacob murmurs. "Two hours to planetfall, more or less.".

The door closes gently again and he decides there's no rush - he can take a few minutes more, curled up against his silver girl, warm and soft in the nest of covers. He's enjoyed several dreamless nights in a row now, which counts as a bonus - but sleeping right through till wake-up call also means no cramped, whispering, giggling sex in the small hours. Worse than that, outside of their sleep pod she behaves just as if they're no more than commander and crewman, so aside from this he won't get to touch her during the day. Their relationship is more or less an open secret now, but she's absolutely right, there's still the chain of command to consider - plus it doesn’t feel like she wants public displays of affection. He still hasn’t worked up the nerve to talk to her about why that is. He's a coward where she's concerned, he knows that. Her honesty is both a blessing and a curse; if he asks her what's up and she tells him he's no more than a pleasant distraction, a bedwarmer ... or worse, 'just friends' ... what is he supposed to do? He's better off not asking the question that might break his heart. He'll take what he can get and be grateful it's something more than nothing.

She stirs in his arms and fumbles for the blanket to get up; he pulls her back with a quiet chuckle and nuzzles her neck.

"Taking the day off?". Her voice is thick with sleep, and he hums happily at the intimacy of it. 

"Well, it ain't the worst idea I ever had.". He slides a hand up her flank suggestively. "Got some tension to work off, if ya know what I mean ...". She knows exactly what he means - his 'tension' is digging into her back, and she sighs happily and settles back against him as his hands roam over her. He grinds against her ass and starts sliding his hands into her sleep shorts, breathing harder at the feel of her under his hands and the way she's moving to his touch. 

But it's not to be; there's a steady procession of footsteps and chatter past the door as the rest of the crew emerge and head for the mess, and just when he thinks the last of them has gone by there's another sharp tap on the door.

"Drifter, Jacob needs you on the bridge soon as you're ready.". It's Piet's voice, apologetic but firm, and he swears under his breath. 

"Hold that thought, baby.", he sighs, and reluctantly lets her go.

* * *

He joins Jacob on the bridge, detouring for fresh coffee and grimacing at the complaints from his still-hard cock. _Later, fella, I promise_. It's time to focus on business ... their next stop is imminent, and it’ll require careful handling, one of the reasons why it’s the last one on his list. Now the crew have had time to settle into an efficient routine, all the interpersonal dynamics have worked out - well, except for Marta, and he’s mentally discounting her from the roster from this point onwards - and everyone will follow Jacob or Sully without question if they give instructions, it’s finally shaping up the way he envisioned.

Just in time, as this will be a complex recovery operation; he left this stash secured in another ancient hideout of his, but the place has changed beyond recognition in the intervening centuries, and the underground complex he’s looking for was beneath a town long since disappeared, levelled by war and natural disasters. He’s confident the shelter will have survived but all the landmarks he’d hoped to reference are gone - new settlements have sprung up over time and his map is effectively useless.

He stands at the comm now, frowning down at the view of the planet below. Sully and Jacob alongside him are looking over the outdated map he’s pulled up, comparing it with the reality spread out in the viewing screen and trying to find any likely points of reference. Jacob stands back in frustration.

“Are you _sure_ this is the place?”.

Drifter nods firmly. “Yeah, I’m sure. Things might've shifted - but if I can get down there, I can find it.”.

His confidence isn’t shared by the other two; they exchange dubious glances as they turn back to the map for yet another scan of the landmarks. Suddenly Sully huffs in triumph and points to a spot on the old map, a tiny cluster of buildings at the junction of two rivers.

“If I have my bearings right, this place is still standing. It’s a lot bigger now, a stable trading nexus. Civic government base. We can get information there.”.

Drifter gives her a look; “Don't tell me, you got friends there too?”.

She returns a bland stare, one he translates as _maybe, so what?,_ and he sighs resignedly.

“Okay, then I guess we head there. We’re due some shore leave anyhow, let everybody shake out some kinks.”.

* * *

Sully wasn’t wrong about the size of the place, or its significance to the locals. If it is the same town that Drifter's old map shows, it’s easily ten times its former size, its enclosing wall a patchwork of brick and plaster interspersed with dressed stone and concrete robbed from the ruins of earlier civilisations. That gives him pause - if they’ve been poking about for building materials, could they have uncovered his bunker? It's only a few miles to the west of here, so it's entirely feasible. He’ll be pissed if this particular cache has been looted already.

Passing through the main gate they come to an open space filled by a large market, rows of stalls stretching ahead and to both sides and crowds of people milling about. It’s impossible to see further than ten feet in any direction. Possibly there’s some sort of complex up ahead, taller stone buildings just visible through occasional gaps in the market awnings, but the fluttering fabrics make it hard to get a bearing on exactly what’s there. He comforts himself that at least they can be safely anonymous in this crowd, and starts calculating how to split the group up to get information.

But suddenly, audible even over the roar of the market, there’s a growing commotion to their right; the crowd parts, people hastily moving to either side of the narrow alley between stalls to allow someone through. Several someones, he notes with unease, a troop of Fallen in some sort of civic livery and carrying arc spears - local police or militia, is his guess. He takes a slow step back, ready to melt into the crowd if necessary. They ignore him however, stopping directly in front of Sully and coming to attention as she turns to face them. She seems unconcerned and strikes up an animated conversation with them; whatever's going on is no big deal, for her at least. Still, he keeps his weight balanced ready to turn and disappear if it should all go south. Old habits die hard.

Finally the talking runs down, and Sully steps back over to him.

“The town governor wants a word - I can handle this, if you don’t want to talk to her.”.

“What does she want?”.

“I won’t know until I talk to her.”.

She shrugs as if that should be obvious, and he frowns. He can’t put his finger on it, but something’s off … maybe just the after-effects of his disturbing visions, but he’s learned through bitter experience not to discount his intuition.

“Nope, better stick together. Don't wanna lose anyone.”.

They find themselves with what could be an honour guard, half of the troop leading and clearing the way ahead and the remainder falling in at the rear; equally it could be a prisoner escort, Drifter thinks grimly, and he wonders if he made the right decision. If it had been anyone other than her, would he have let them go off alone? He dismisses the hypothetical; anyone else wouldn’t have received a personal invite from the governor. _Somethin’ smells_. Feels like his little party is getting the full official treatment, and the further they go the more his hackles rise. This is already far from the smooth in-and-out mission he was aiming for.

* * *

Before he has time to get too twitchy they arrive at the administrative centre, shepherded through a cluttered office and out the other side into a large courtyard - at which point the guards abruptly melt away from in front of them and split off to the side in positions of extreme subservience; bowing low, heads down, arms spread wide … he knows the pose, it’s the courtesy displayed to an Archon or a Kell. It’s also the position the Fallen captain adopted in front of Sully at the Tower gate, he recalls suddenly.

Ahead of them there’s a slightly raised dais with a massive carved stone chair in the centre of the courtyard, and the figure seated there is watching them silently. The courtyard itself is largely empty apart from benches scattered in two rough semicircles to the right and left of the dais, and small but healthy trees in raised beds at regular intervals around the space. It’s the same aesthetic as the green spaces in the Tower, bringing the outside in with internal courtyards and greenery, and he wonders idly who copied who.

Sully turns to murmur “Stay just as you are for now.”, then steps forward and also bows low at the chair’s occupant. The figure shifts, and they can see for the first time how huge they are, dwarfing the average human; four long arms unfold as they sit up straighter and lean down to look at the titan. They’re wearing a full mask, but no breather attached - ceremonial use only? The armour is fully functional though, as is the long blade tucked into their belt and the sidearm holstered next to it.

“You may address your Kell.”.

They speak in faultless Common, their voice a warm contralto with only the crisp sibilants betraying their Eliksni origin. Sully straightens up and looks directly at the Kell, stepping forward a little to bring them almost face to face, and shrugs.

"Hey, Squishbit.".

There’s stunned silence as the crew takes in the easy familiarity of the guardian’s tone and the casual use of what’s clearly a nickname - the guards go rigid with uncertainty, and the Kell just stares. Then she abruptly snorts, and reaches for her mask, smoothly removing it and placing it to one side. There’s a shocked murmur as the crew absorb what they’re seeing; this Kell isn’t Fallen, or at least not _just_ Fallen - she’s a mix of races. What’s visible of her skin is palest violet, echoing Awoken skin tones, and her ridged exoskeleton is as intricate and smooth as finely-tooled leather. Her four eyes are the usual bright blue, narrowed now in amusement, and she has the jutting jaw and snub nose common to Eliksni. Her mouth though is distinctly human, with full lips curved up in a smirk. As she speaks they catch a glimpse of needle-sharp teeth, pronounced canines gleaming.

“Be welcome, cousin ... not quite the formal greeting of our fathers, eh? I despair.”. Thank the Traveller she seems to be amused by the titan’s antics rather than offended.

Sully drops instantly into the full courtesy and gives the correct greeting in Eliksni, but there’s a laugh in her voice as she does so. “Never let it be said I don't know how to behave in polite company.”.

“Oh, we know you know _how_ … we just know you choose not to. Come here, let me see you.”, the Kell commands, and reinforces this by reaching to lift the guardian easily to stand straight before her. “You haven’t aged a day.”.

She sounds indulgent, and a little envious. Sully shrugs. “The Traveller’s blessing. Or curse, whatever. You, on the other hand - I swear you’ve grown two feet since I was here last. Been sneaking extra ether?”.

The Kell laughs. “My due ration, once they realised I would succeed my uncle … oh, one moment.”.

She gestures, and a human woman appears from behind them carrying a sheaf of papers; the Kell examines each in turn and hands them back one by one with murmured instructions, finally addressing Sully again.

“It seems I have no more essential business today, so we will withdraw somewhere less formal. You may bring your people but they may not speak.”.

She sounds all officialdom again, intimidating but not unkind.

* * *

In short order they’re shown to a chamber on the first floor, a comfortable sitting room with two low upholstered benches facing each other. The Kell takes one and indicates Sully to take the other, apparently intending that everyone else should stand. Drifter senses that negotiations aren’t over, despite the obvious relationship between his titan and the Kell, and fixes each member of the crew in turn with a fierce glare to indicate they should stay still and silent. The Kell observes their awkward fidgets with an amused eye and turns to Sully.

“Good as it is to see you - what are you here for?”.

Sully tilts her head at Drifter. “My friend is looking for some goods he left here, years ago. This is his crew.”.

Drifter stiffens as she openly gives away his mission, but he catches a subtle signal from the hand she’s apparently resting casually on the bench beside her. _Patience_, it says. He subsides reluctantly. The Kell catches his reaction, and considers him for a second before turning back to the titan.

“This is your crew?”.

“No; his crew. I’m part of it.”.

More consideration. “I see. You, however, will be responsible for them while they are here. I will not tolerate threats to this town’s security. Understood?”. The Kell sits back without waiting for an answer, resting her chin on one hand while she scans the group’s faces.

“Now, a most important question,” she purrs, “who will pay the host tribute?”.

Raven starts at that and the Kell grins. “I see someone has spent time in an Eliksni House before.”. She holds the hunter's gaze until Raven flushes and looks away, and smiles wryly. “I should not tease. Cousin, I leave it to you to explain to your people. You will be my guests for tonight while I consider your request. We will find you some quarters.”.

That’s a clear dismissal; Sully gets up to leave and the Kell stalls her for a second - “Come back and talk to me later.” - before someone appears to show them to where they’ll sleep. 

* * *

The space they’re allocated is a long room up on the second floor; there are tall windows down the whole of one side, showing a view of the square on the opposite side to where they came in, and a large stretch of the town beyond. The whole settlement seems to be laid out on a neat grid system with clear demarcations between agricultural, residential and industrial use, contrasting with the untidy sprawl Drifter dimly recalls from his previous visits here. Must have been rebuilt from the ground up at some point, he muses, wondering idly what might have caused the need for that. He shakes those unproductive thoughts away as their guide leaves, and pulls Sully to one side.

“You gonna explain what’s goin’ on? Why’d you tell her what we’re here for?”.

He speaks more sharply than he’d intended, and instantly regrets it; Sully’s face shuts down, going blank and distant. When she replies, after slightly too long a pause, her voice is distinctly cool.

“I’m doing my job, making sure you get what you want with the least fuss. The Kell is _the_ authority in this town, and if she’s not clear on why we’re here she can put all sorts of obstacles in our way - and I warn you, even you will have a hell of a time outthinking her. ”.

He grimaces. “Fine. How d'you know her? She called you ‘cousin’. What’s that about?”.

“We share an ancestor.”.

He pauses at that; Risen have no memories of their past life, at least they’re not supposed to, and he’d love to drag that story out of her. Now’s not the time though. “You two got history?”.

“Some. I visit from time to time, checking in. I watched her grow up.”.

He makes a frustrated gesture at the complex backstory he doesn't have time to explore. “Yeah, that don't add up. Ain't that long since you were rezzed, and somehow you got friends on every godforsaken mudball in this arm of the galaxy - I tell you what, I don't like the smell of this. If you take her side over me ...” and he tails off threateningly. She waits him out, one raised eyebrow inviting him to vocalise the threat.

“So you still don't trust me ...? You can turn me off right here if you’re not comfortable with me being on the crew. Say the word.”.

She’s speaking softly, but the crew can see the tension and guess the reason easily - they all watch nervously as he squares his shoulders and glares at her with the force of everything he wants to say but can't, not in front of everyone. He turns away sharply to pace to the other end of the room, staring out of the window while he collects his temper, and she waits for a second before turning to the rest of the group.

“Anyone else have questions?”.

“Who’s going to pay the tribute?”. That’s Raven, changing the subject neatly; Sully gives her a grateful grin.

“And what does that even mean?” adds Asa with a frown.

The grin spreads wider. “Raven can explain it to you.”; she cackles gleefully at the hunter’s shocked protest. “Alright, I’ll do it. Our host, by Eliksni custom, is entitled to expect gifts or favours of their guests. You can bring a gift; but if you arrived empty-handed you can sing, dance, tell a story, anything to entertain the household. And sometimes the favours are … sexual … if the guest is willing.”. She pauses as this sinks in, and smirks at Marta’s unconcealed revulsion. “Don't worry, princess - she won’t look twice at you.”.

Marta scowls furiously at the titan’s use of the demeaning nickname Drifter bestowed on her, and reaches for her knife - her arm is caught before she can get to it, and she looks round to see Jacob frowning her down in furious warning. She yanks her arm away, but subsides a little.

“If anyone _is_ willing, I can let her know. She won’t ask for anything that you’re not one hundred percent up for.”.

Raven raises a questioning hand; “Why don't you do it?”.

“Ah.”. She turns serious for a second. “I've known her since she was tiny … it would be weird. And besides, I’m not her type.”.

Jacob has another question. “She said you’re responsible for us? What does that mean, exactly?”.

“It means I'm vouching for you all, because she knows me. For the duration, if you fuck up, you answer to Drifter … and he answers to me.”.

He turns at that, and finds her looking at him with a faint challenge in her eyes, as if questioning whether he can cope with this extra level of disruption to his authority. He sighs, recalling the gossip about the captain’s display of subservience back at the Tower.

“Whatever. Am I gonna end up on the floor with your foot on my head?”.

Her lips twitch at that; she jerks up her chin and murmurs, “If you’re _very_ lucky.”. The crew sniggers; Marta, predictably, scowls.

Well, no point making a fuss here and now - if he wants his way, that it. He's clearly in her hands. He shrugs grudging acceptance of this new order, and starts looking over the sleeping arrangements. It’s basic stuff, a row of thick kapok-stuffed pallets laid directly on the stone flags; comfortable, insulating and wide enough each for two people. He does the sums - there will have to be some doubling up.

“Okay, people - pick a spot, and pick a friend. Looks like it’s two to a bed tonight.”.

It’s a fascinating study in crew dynamics, observing how people relate to each other; especially when they’re off balance in a new place like this. He stands back and stares at the wall, apparently lost in thought, watching how they size up their crewmates, trying to decide who they’re comfortable with. Who they trust. Triss and Piet don’t hesitate, instantly moving together to the nearest mattress. That answers one of his questions, anyway. Aki and Maj follow suit a second later, not technically a couple but accustomed to sharing crew quarters from long service together and entirely relaxed about sleeping in close proximity to each other. Raven casts a nervous glance at Sully before approaching Jacob, who smiles reassuringly and nods. That leaves Marta, Asa and himself.

Marta flounces down on the mattress at the furthest end of the room, not meeting anyone’s eyes, but she tracks Drifter as he walks slowly up the line. He reaches Asa, still standing alone, and cocks his head.

“I ain’t bunking with you, buddy.”.

The boy looks confused but moves obediently down the room towards Marta, ignoring her angry hiss as he sits heavily down next to her. Drifter snorts to himself and looks at Sully.

“Looks like it’s you’n’me, hero.”.

If he was hoping for a positive reaction, he’s disappointed; it's going to take more than that to smooth over their earlier difference of opinion. She just nods coolly, and looks up at the door as a figure tentatively knocks on it. The Kell’s human assistant is standing there and she leans in to murmur confidentially to the titan.

“The Kell wants to see us. Just me, you and Jacob.”.

* * *

She keeps them waiting, of course; Kell’s privilege. They stand for an awkward fifteen minutes while she takes care of something or other - or nothing at all, the classic power play - until they’re shown through to her sitting room again. They’re all offered seats this time, but she’s pointedly talking only to Sully in rapid Eliksni, and Drifter’s growing increasingly frustrated. He can follow parts of the conversation, but most of it is irrelevant - discussing people he’s never heard of and town happenings he’s not interested in. His impatience must have shown in his face, as she looks directly at him with a faint smirk and switches to Common. She indicates him, speaking to Sully.

“This one is yours?”.

“When he wants to be.”, is the flat answer. Drifter frowns down at his hands, wondering what that means exactly.

“And this one?”; the Kell uncurls a lazy claw at Jacob.

“He’s his own.”.

Jacob shifts uncomfortably as the Kell stares directly into his eyes, trying to work out what she’s getting at. She sighs, addressing Sully again.

“Is he always this clueless?”.

The titan chuckles, “Not always. It’s a good thing he’s cute. Just ask him.”.

Jacob chokes as he gets what they‘re driving at, raising his eyes to meet the Kell’s piercing blue gaze with something like panic. “The tribute … you’re asking _me_?” he squeaks.

She nods calmly. “I am asking you,” she purrs. “There is no shame if you aren’t interested; simply say so.”. She sits back.

His mind races; he’s not without experience, but this is far from what he knows. But, alien strangeness aside, the Kell is undeniably beautiful, fascinating even. He stares at nothing for a second before his libido gives him a sharp slap; _turn this down, boy, and you’ll forever wonder what you missed._ He raises his eyes quickly and shakily nods. “I’d be honoured.”.

The Kell smiles widely, full lips curving up in delight. “You, stay there. You two,” and her hand waves at Drifter and Sully dismissively, “go find something else to do.”.

* * *

They make it out of the room before Drifter chokes from holding on to his laughter, and he catches Sully’s grin. “You knew she’d pick him?”.

“Oh yes. I know her tastes.”.

“If he said no … was she gonna ask me?” His laughter fades abruptly as hers bubbles up.

“I don’t think so. Mainly she wanted to observe you and me together in the same room. She’s angling for information about our relationship, and she knows I won’t give it to her outright.”.

He sighs and leans against the wall, folding his arms. “Yeah, about that - we need to talk. No … I need t’apologise.”.

She doesn’t react, and he tries again.

“Look; I got the fidgets, not knowin' what you mean by me. You scare me, ya know? And the closer I get, the more you scare me.”.

Sully smiles distractedly as she moves in front of him. “And yet … you just keep getting closer. What’s that about?”.

He grabs her shoulders gently and leans his forehead against hers, feeling the tension in her as she holds her position. 

“Hell if I know. Got a taste for danger, I guess. Anyway … I’m sorry.”.

It’s a heroic gesture on his part; he hasn’t apologised to man nor beast in centuries, nor felt like he ought to, but the idea that she might unconcernedly walk away from him forever makes his stomach twist. He can’t let it happen.

She relaxes a little, but all she says is “Okay.”. That shuttered expression, the one that speaks of ancient hurts and disappointments, is back on her face; she moves carefully back out of his grasp and walks away down the corridor while he's still trying to work out how it all went bad. The day started so well ... and now this. _Fuck_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea if human/Eliksni partnerships are likely to be interfertile; I'm assuming that they are, since that way I get to write some interesting new characters. Readers' opinions welcome :)


	27. Going Underground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacob does his bit for diplomatic relations, and Drifter finally realises what he needs to do.

Jacob sits perfectly still and stares at his hands as Drifter and Sully leave. Suddenly he’s not sure what possessed him to blithely accept the Kell’s approach, or how the hell he thought he was going to deal with his first intimate encounter with, let’s face it, an alien body … but he can’t back out now without giving grave offence. And besides, he _wants_ this, he really does … he just has no idea what to do next. Maybe he should have asked Sully for some pointers - or maybe not, as he imagines the unholy amusement she’d derive from it - no, definitely not. He can handle this.

The Kell has been watching the parade of emotions crossing his face in silent amusement; now she brings his attention back to her with a casual wave of her hand. “Don't look so desolate - I promise I will return you to your friends in one piece.”.

He looks up hastily to protest and realises she’s teasing him, a wicked smile playing at the corners of her lips. “I …” - he tails off, lost for words, and grins ruefully. “Yes ma’am.”.

She sighs and stretches, not taking her eyes off him, and reaches out one long arm to beckon him closer. “I prefer my bed-friends a little less … apprehensive, as a rule; how can I help you relax? There is no rush.”.

Well, that sounds promising - he frowns at his feet for a moment. “To be perfectly honest - I’m mainly worried about not, er, pleasing you. That you’ll wish you’d picked someone else, because I have no idea what to do. I don’t even - I don’t know where to start with Eliksni physicality.”.

Her smile grows at his frank admission. He’s not helpless, and he’s not prejudiced - he’s actually asking for guidance because she knows her body better than he does. “How refreshing.”, she comments aloud. “I have no doubt I made the right choice, even if it’s only for the pleasure of your honesty. Start here.”; and she extends one arm with the hand palm up so he can see the tender skin on her forearm. “Much like humans - any part of the body where the skin is thinnest, is the most sensitive. Intimate Eliksni greetings focus here,” and she traces the section of skin between wrist and elbow, “and here.”, she tilts her head to expose the sensitive spot between her exoskeleton plates. “To start with.”.

Well, he can’t ask for clearer instructions than that. He comes closer and takes the offered hand reverently in his own; on impulse he presses a kiss to her palm before running his fingertips lightly along her arm. She hums faintly; “You learn fast.”.

“Like that? More?”.

“Oh yes - more.”, she murmurs. “Please.”. Things go much better after that.

* * *

Drifter heads for the nearest open door and out of the building to clear his head; last thing he feels like dealing with right now is everyone’s questions about what’s happening next. One side of the narrow street is in deep shadow now as the day wears on, and he unconsciously crosses over to make the most of the slanting afternoon sunshine, dawdling aimlessly past shops and stalls as if browsing. In reality he couldn’t have said what was in front of him at any point on his path - he’s still seeing her face in his mind’s eye, that expression he couldn’t quite identify before the shutters came down. Disappointment, maybe? Resignation? Feels like somehow he had a golden opportunity to say the right thing, the perfect moment, and he scuffed it. _Yeah, I fucked up somehow. Again._

He keeps walking with no particular destination in mind, moving purely to avoid standing still. In a perfect world, like in the drama vids, right now he’d find her around the next corner by happy chance and magically find the words to make it right. That’s how it’s supposed to work, right? Happy endings all round, fade to black, roll credits … But each corner he turns is crowded with people he’s no interest in talking to, and stubbornly lacking in enigmatic silver titans - and even if he did find her there’d be little chance of private conversation. Maybe he should just keep going, head back to the ship and sulk in private - he sighs heavily and rejects that idea. He needs to get back and brief the crew. There’s still work to be done, and if he’s lucky he’ll manage to avoid pissing her off any worse before that’s safely completed. Probably he should just keep his mouth shut altogether, just to be safe.

* * *

But when he gets back, half the crew is missing; taking advantage of their downtime to explore the town apparently. The remainder are clustered around a table at the far end of the room, with Piet and Sully engaged in an animated game of Kells against Aki and Maj. The set seems to belong here, the bronze game board inset into the tabletop and engraved with intricate curves and spirals like a navigation chart; and the playing pieces are good quality if he’s any judge, delicate discs of green jade or black onyx scattered across the map in a complex array. Fit for a Kell, indeed. Looks like Piet’s getting a privileged masterclass from the other three - ever the scholar, he’s making copious notes as they explain the moves available to him.

Drifter never played Kells much, leaning towards card games for preference, but he’s no stranger to its strategic lessons. Secure your territory, make it safe, grow your House, expand again … contrasting with the nearest human equivalent, chess, which ends when you destroy your enemy; the winning play in Kells depends on creating security for each phase before generating the next. Possibly human/Fallen relations would be a mite less strained if the Tower’s leaders had ever bothered to absorb that insight.

His own emotional turmoil aside, the atmosphere is relaxed and social; he forces himself to relax for now, since there’s nothing else to be done until everyone’s back. Might as well snag a power nap - he settles back on his mattress and drifts off to the murmured commentary and the quiet clack of stone on metal as the pieces whizz around the board.

* * *

He finally stirs when he hears the game drawing to a close, prompted by the return of the rest of the crew and one of the Kell’s household appearing to call them to eat. There’s still no sign of Jacob though, even though the sun is completely down; is she planning to keep him all night? He frowns and catches Sully on her way to the door.

“How long’s the rookie gonna be? We need to get movin’.”.

She grins. “All night, I hope.”.

“You hope …?”.

“The longer he’s, ah, paying tribute, the happier she’ll be with us. Trust me.”.

He chuckles reluctantly at her wicked smirk. “Yeah, I guess. Hell of a deal, that tribute thing. Must be nice, havin' your pick of who comes through the door.”.

She snorts in amusement at that. “You could have your pick of anyone in the Gambit queue, Kell or not.”. She says this without any apparent jealousy; he’s not sure if that’s a good thing. He reaches out and touches her arm tentatively.

“Nah, I’m not serious. I already got my pick. You’re it, in case that ain’t clear.”.

It’s obvious from her arrested expression that it wasn't, _damn_ \- the realisation smacks him between the eyes. She has no way of knowing how he feels … all he’s ever said out loud is that they’ve got something going on, that she’s his girl, that he likes having her around, and that he needs her skills. Who could blame her if she assumes that’s all there is to it? No wonder she’s wary of committing.

There’s no time to say more, as the others come crowding past to get food and the moment of privacy is shattered. He has to get her alone, _properly_ alone, for long enough to actually talk to her - and best if it happens before they leave this planet. She’s amongst friends here, she’s got options, if she decides she doesn’t want what he’s offering then she can make her own way and not have to be cooped up on the ship with him with no escape. Perhaps it’s for the best.

But the little voice inside him, the one he pretends he can’t hear, is howling furious denial. _Fuck no, not happening. I just found her, I only just figured it out … I can’t lose her now_.

* * *

After the meal she moves without comment to the last free mattress; he hesitates before joining her, but it’s that or sleep on the floor. He half expected her to switch up and sleep next to Raven since Jacob is otherwise engaged, but everyone is carefully avoiding drawing attention to that. That is, until Raven flops down on her mattress and ostentatiously spreads out both arms and legs like a blissful starfish, exclaiming “All mine!”. That raises another laugh and some lighthearted banter as everyone moves to turn in. For most of them this is no different to sharing space in the crew dorm aboard ship, aside from not having their individual bunks, but he doesn’t miss the way Piet and Triss arrange themselves facing each other, clasping hands and settling with contented murmurs. He envies them, being able to openly express their attachment like that without embarrassment. If he weren't so afraid to show weakness he could have that too ...

He lies awake for a long while; he suspects Sully's not asleep, but he can’t be sure - her eyes are closed and she's breathing evenly. She seems to have the trick of taking her rest even if she’s not in deep sleep, and he contents himself with watching her in the moonlight filtering through the tall windows. In repose her face is strong and solemn, and the resemblance to ancient statuary is even more pronounced, the stern beauty of gods and heroes chiselled in pale marble. His fingers twitch; he wants to touch her so badly, even if it’s only to secretly curl his hand over hers for reassurance … _One more day_, he tells himself. _Keep it together for one more day. You can fix this_.

* * *

He’s awake as soon as the sun comes streaming into the room, shifting irritably to get the light out of his eyes. Surfacing from deep dreamless sleep, it takes him a few seconds to orient himself, familiar inputs unmixed with unfamiliar and confusing his morning brain. The smell is right, citrus/spice next to him and her hair tickling his nostrils as he leans in to inhale deeply. Her warm body just an inch from his, well, that’s almost right - he closes the gap with a determined twitch of his hips and settles back into position with a silent ‘hmm’ of satisfaction. _That’s better._ That just leaves the bed; the cover under his fingers is smooth and plain, no textured squares or quilted bedroll, something wrong there … realisation dawns and he opens his eyes hastily. Nobody else is stirring yet, looks like he got away with it; under the blanket he snakes a surreptitious arm around her waist and pulls her closer still, planting a stealthy kiss under her ear before regretfully disengaging and levering himself to his feet. If he stays there any longer he won’t be able to keep his hands to himself - and besides, he’s got things to do. First of which is locating his business partner, the lucky little bastard, and getting him back on task. _He'd better have some energy left for workin’_.

He stretches and stares out of the window, wondering where to start; it must be still early yet, judging by the sparse handful of people emerging from shadowed side streets and crossing the square to begin their day. Faint noises from down the corridor suggest the Kell’s staff are up and about, and he follows the sound until he finds breakfast - and discovers Jacob, already sitting down with a loaded plate and a steaming mug of whatever the local equivalent to coffee is. He’s wearing the faintly blissed expression of a man who’s had his horizons firmly expanded and hopes they never shrink back again. Ah, the potential for teasing here ... Drifter grins and dismisses the impulse to embarrass the boy; however you look at it, he’s put in a solid night’s work to further the mission. He greets him with a knowing chuckle and a pat on the back, and fills his own mug in silence.

* * *

By the time everyone else has joined them there’s a message from the Kell; Sully is summoned to discuss the mission and negotiate permission to proceed. Last out of bed, tousled and grouchy, she barely has time to down her caffeine fix and bolt a slice of fruit bread; she’s still rubbing her face and yawning as she heads to the door to answer the summons. He fights to keep the foolish smile off his lips, watching her pull herself together; she’s deliciously vulnerable in that state. You could almost forget what a killing machine she can be at times.

She stops next to him and leans heavily on the table, blinking away the last remnants of sleep. “She’s going to want something in return for letting us carry on. Something that’ll benefit the town somehow. What can I offer her?”.

He considers for a moment. “Well, I need t’see what’s still there; likely some parts for power generators, water purifiers, that sorta thing. Any good?”.

She nods. “That might work. Let’s see if Jacob has done his job.”.

The rookie hears his name and glances across with a sly grin. “Couldn’t possibly comment. Go see for yourself.”.

* * *

Negotiations are successful; she returns with a wink and a thumbs up for Jacob, and a message that the Kell will take any generators or parts that they don’t plan to take with them, delivered back to the town before they leave. It seems like a good deal, he reflects; he’d planned to leave the larger stuff behind anyway, and might never be back for it, so it’s a small loss in the grand scheme. He swiftly sets his outline plans in motion; a small group to hike out with him to the ruins to the west, which seems to be all that remains of the old city, and the rest of them to go back to the ship and prep the storage space. If all goes well he expects to have a significant amount of gear to transfer.

As an added bonus, it means he doesn’t have to endure Marta’s presence. Despite everything that’s gone before it seems she just can’t admit she’s beaten, and her increasingly desperate flirting is getting on his nerves. He sees her transport back to the ship with immense relief, and sets out with his chosen few; Sully for local knowledge, Raven for scouting, and Asa for muscle just in case.

It's some way past noon when they start to see signs of the old settlement; single stones and chunks of crumbled concrete at first, then patches of wall foundation half buried under the dirt, and finally outlines of what have to have been buildings. There’s nothing left standing over a foot or so high, and there are still faint soot shadows hinting at the violence that brought this place down. He grimaces, remembering some of the razings he’s witnessed over the dark years, and turns to look around at the outlines to see if anything jogs his memory.

In his day the bunker sat under a dilapidated warehouse in a factory complex churning out satellite arrays; originally conceived as a disaster shelter for the district's workers, later adopted as a bootleg bar and gambling den, and eventually forgotten about as people abandoned the crumbling neighbourhood and moved to safer parts. That’s when he’d claimed the place and secured it against intruders, coming up from time to time to loot the surrounding structures for anything he might have a use for. It had served him well, he recalls, but being stuck alone underground had driven him crazy. _Crazier_, he qualifies silently to himself.

He pokes around in the ruins for an hour or more, searching for any clue to which part of the old town they’re in. There are no landmarks left, no artefacts; no street signs or beer bottles or sticks of furniture to hint at the former uses of these spaces. He’s moved maybe a hundred yards in every possible direction when he finally feels a faint resonance under his feet; a void of some kind. Might be the old sewer system or municipal tunnels, but … he looks more closely at the ground. If this is the bunker he should see some trace of the factory on one or other side of the ghost wall.

He hisses in triumph as he finally spots it; not even the thing itself, but its sooty negative burned into the dirt, the distinctive pattern of the pierced metal treads that made up the factory’s internal stairs and walkways. This is the place … now to find the entrance. He tracks along the remaining wall until he finds a doorway, turning and half-closing his eyes as he paces the remembered path to the bunker opening. Right where the trapdoor ought to be, he stops and stamps one foot, grinning at the distinct _boom_ from the suspended panel and the resonance of the metal plate feeding back up through his feet. _Bingo_. He whistles to the others, kneeling hastily to scrape the hard-packed dirt away until he uncovers the rust-speckled edges of the trapdoor. Then he sits back on his haunches with a smug look and shakes out his sore arms.

“Told ya I could find it.”. 


	28. The Drifter Dances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You'd think a man who'd been alive for two thousand years would know how to talk to girls by now; but this conversation is too crucial to leave to chance. And this one, this silver girl ... is too important to him. Drifter finally gets into his ancient hideout and sets a few things straight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't find much lore about how the Awoken came to be, not in detail; so please forgive me if I've stomped all over canon in an attempt to create a backstory.

_ **AWAKENING** _

* * *

* * *

_The canyon is filled with shocked survivors … is ’survivor’ the right word if you didn’t really survive, if everything you used to be is dead? If your heart still beats and your body still stands, but yesterday’s version of you is gone forever?_

_The not-survivors stare at their fellows for some hint of familiarity, emptying their pockets and their packs and picking over the artefacts of their lost lives searching for meaning. They find none. Not even a name to tell them who they used to be before the stars were snuffed out._

_Calamities attract predators, and this one is no different. In a matter of days a group forms and asserts dominance, the stronger, taller, brighter ones taking charge by virtue of being strong and tall and bright. And when towering intimidation and charm are not enough to win over their prey, strength turns to brutality and settles the argument._

_The strong, the tall, the bright become the new elite. They are closer to perfection, they argue, their new-found doctrine that external beauty signals inner virtue. And by extension the small, the weak, the not-quite-shining-enough, must be further away from the ideal; further from the Traveller’s heart, slower to be extracted from the grasp of the Darkness. Sullied somehow. This group becomes a lesser caste, subject to harsh discipline and short measures while the strong construct a new order to suit themselves._

_So begins yet another night in disciplinary for this unshining one, for whatever bullshit reason was invented this time. This one hasn’t chosen a new name yet. This one has no friends here, nobody to whom they would answer, and nobody from whom they would consider taking orders. What need of a name then? They lie perfectly still on the narrow plank that passes for a bunk, ignoring the gnawing emptiness in their stomach, and stare into the formless dark. It's supposed to be a psychological punishment, traumatised as many of them are, but it holds no terror for this one. The real monsters are outside, says a tiny long-ago voice, and they twitch fretfully at the tantalising almost-memory hovering behind their eyes._

_When the strong ones come to open the cell in the morning, smugly enquiring whether this one has learned to be more respectful in future, they’re greeted by silence and a sullen stare. And when they step closer to deliver a more immediate lesson in power balance, they learn a lesson of their own. Very very briefly, they learn that not everything that looks like prey is helpless._

_By the time the bodies are discovered this one is many miles away, washing their tormentors’ blood and snot off their knuckles. They look up and across at their new destination, at the cluster of buildings next to a makeshift airfield, and the small ships rising into the air in search patterns. And the other small ships sitting on the ground waiting for pilots._

_A scout goes wherever they wish, and does whatever they must. Who said that ...? It hardly matters. Just another long-ago voice. A smile just quirks one corner of this one's mouth - not altogether benign, but it’s the first expression they’ve allowed to cross their face since the Darkness whispered in their ear._

* * *

* * *

The old trapdoor isn’t quite rusted into its frame, but centuries of dirt and damp have created a hard-packed seal of natural grout that resists their efforts to lift the metal slab at first. Sully calls up her ghost and her face takes on a faraway look while they converse silently; eventually she nods decisively and the drone floats down to ground level and begins to hum quietly. Drifter frowns a question at her.

“Sonic scrub; if we can find the right frequency, it’ll break up the dirt enough to loosen the trapdoor.”.

He lets out a quietly impressed ‘huh’ at the explanation - that’s smart. He’d never have thought of that. And it works, too; after running through a few different cycles the ghost settles on a faintly discordant two-tone whine and the dirt particles start to visibly vibrate. Suddenly there’s a puff of dust all around the edges of the metal as the seal gives way and air is exchanged with the outside world for the first time in centuries, and Drifter grasps the inset handle and pulls the trap open with a satisfied grunt.

By rights it should be unsettling, descending into this dark hole in the ground in the middle of nowhere, but once they get inside it’s just … sad. Abandoned and unwanted, where once it had purpose and people to fill it. As for Drifter, there are no ghosts in this place to bother him; the ugliest spectre it ever housed was the gripping loneliness he endured until he emerged for the final time and made his escape from this planet.

Their footsteps echo on the metal treads of the stairs as they cautiously follow him into the dark, pulling out their ghosts to light the way. All except for him. Even here, surrounded by people he controls and miles from any possible enemy, he still doesn’t bring it out. Still doesn’t ask it for help with anything.

At the base of the stairs there's a large vestibule giving way to a single long corridor, the far end disappearing into the darkness, with doors at regular intervals off either side. The walls are cool and dry to the touch, peeling decals still pointing the way to long-gone facilities, and despite the deep gloom nobody feels any particular apprehension. The air is a little stale but there’s no smell of decay; there was nothing particularly down here likely to rot other than the few textiles he left behind, bedding and such that he had no need for, and even those seem to be surprisingly well-preserved.

He sets up the transmat zone in one corner of the vestibule and establishes comms with the ship; lamps are delivered as the first priority and he walks confidently down the corridor placing them at intervals, opening doors as he goes and letting the light in. The next transmat brings extra hands to get the clearing underway and he leads the whole crew back down the corridor for a brief orientation, poking his head into each room with swift instructions on what they should find, and what of that he wants taken back to the ship. Then he leaves them to arrange themselves as they see fit and goes to see if there’s any chance of restoring power, however briefly.

* * *

After a brief discussion Jacob heads straight back to the ship to coordinate; the others form a bucket chain of sorts, from shelf clearing to sorting to picking to transmat loading. The first two people back aboard form a similar chain at the other end, receiving and storing in the ship’s holds. Drifter stands back and watches them work, well pleased with their quiet efficiency. There are jokes and snatches of song as they work, but no bitching - even from Marta, which surprises him. She seems fascinated by being in the place where he lived for so long, as if it’s a step closer to knowing him better, and obediently picks up her allocated tasks without complaint. The place hasn’t seen this kind of bustle, he reflects, since its heyday as a gamblers’ bar, how many hundreds of years ago he doesn’t like to think about. It was a good base, while it lasted. While there were still people around to help him fill it. He pushes off the wall he was leaning against with an impatient sigh; no time to get maudlin.

His brief foray into the generator room has confirmed his suspicion - there’s only a small amount of backup fuel, barely enough to run basic heat and light for even half a day. Once upon a time the plan was for the solar arrays up top on the warehouse roof to kick in and trickle power to the massive batteries running down one side of the room here. Too bad he stripped most of the arrays and broke them down long ago - not that it matters as they’d have been long since destroyed, right along with the roof and the walls and everything else, well before he’d have had a chance to come back and use them. But it looks like the old heat pump infrastructure is still functional; and if the concrete substrate hasn’t suffered any major seismic shifts, then the hypocaust's network of copper pipes should be intact too.

He lifts the maintenance panel and drops down into the tiny space to examine the controls, shedding his bulky coat and gauntlets as he goes to give him more room to manoeuvre. The temperature gauge is misted and cracked, impossible to read accurately, but he can’t see any sign of the needle at either of the danger ends of the scale which must mean it’s somewhere within operational range. Good enough. He fiddles with the connections until the exposed section of pipe next to him lets out a faint ‘ping’, protesting the expansion of the fluid running through it as it warms up. _That’ll do it_.

He stays put for a few minutes, leaning easily on the edge of the maintenance pit and testing the pipe periodically with his hand until he can feel the warmth creeping along it. Assuming the settings haven’t changed since he was last living here, there should be no need for adjustments … he braces his arms on the edge of the pit and lifts himself out, muscles tensing under his thin shirt as he goes. There’s a faint shuffle in the doorway, and he spins round to see Marta stepping guiltily back into the corridor.

“You want somethin’?”, he raps out, and she freezes at the anger in his voice. Just then Sully appears in his line of sight as well, and comes up to the door. Her face warms with an appreciative grin at the sight of him half-dressed, and she tilts her head.

“Seriously? You can’t blame a girl for admiring the view.”.

He can’t stop the smirk that crosses his face at that, and even Marta smiles reluctantly as she turns away to go back to her task. Sully exchanges a glance with her as she goes, rueful and sympathetic, and just for a second they completely understand each other. He wonders if, given enough time, Sully could charm the redhead the way she has everyone else. _Betcha she could_. He won’t ask it of her, though. If Marta doesn’t mend her behaviour she's off the crew as soon as he finds somewhere to drop her, and that’s final.

Sully loiters in the doorway, still checking him out, and he chuckles at the gleam in her eye.

“Hold that thought, hero.”.

One eyebrow quirks at him, unimpressed. “I’ve been holding that thought for nearly two days now. Step it up, Romeo.”. And she turns away to get back to work.

He smiles to himself as her footsteps disappear down the corridor; good, she’s feeling it too.

* * *

He’s put her at the far end of the bunker, clearing the end room he’d jokingly designated as his ‘armoury' back in the day; crate upon crate of weapons and parts that he had no idea if he’d ever use, but feverishly collected anyway. Some of that stuff is so obscure even he has no idea what it is, despite his long experience, and he’s counting on her eye for weaponry to sort the good from the bad. Not coincidentally it also puts her at the far end of the bucket chain, the last to come up with things to go back to the ship and one of the final group needing to be transported back aboard along with himself, Asa and Maj. He casts an eye over the beacons, pulling up all but one and handing them to Asa.

“You and Maj go back, take these and that last crate from Sully. That’s enough bulk for one transmat. We’ll come up in a a while.”.

Asa nods and complies, and the blue glow envelops him and the Dreg and the small heap of goods as they disappear.

Drifter stands for a long moment looking at the empty space where they were; closes his eyes and takes in the silence falling back into place after the hustle of the last few hours. He frowns in thought as he hears faint footsteps; the titan coming up from the other end of the bunker, having taken one final look around for anything worth bringing. _This is it_. He grabs the last beacon and swiftly taps it against the metal stair beside him, unseating the locator chip a fraction. One way or another, he’s got guaranteed privacy until he’s managed to talk to her.

She’s been silent for the last few hours, working on her own in the end room and letting her ghost speak for her as she concentrated on sorting the crowded shelves. He’s tense with anticipation by now, desperate to touch her now that he can, but his physical needs have to take second place to finding out exactly where they stand. He might never get a better chance than this, and if his plan works they’ll have enough time for … well, everything he wants to do, talking included.

He waves the beacon at her. “This one’s playin’ up; looks like we’re on our own for a while.”. She frowns and steps up to look at it, instantly diagnosing the problem - and the likely cause - and raises an ironic eyebrow. His poker face is good, but he cracks under that scrutiny and smirks. “Okay, I may have helped it along a little.”.

She rolls her eyes indulgently and sits down on a crate while he hits the comm switch and reaches Jacob.

“Gonna take some time to sort somethin' out for the Kell; we’ll be back with ya as soon as we can.”.

He doesn’t wait for a reply, killing the connection with a decisive gesture and leaning heavily on the panel with both hands as he gathers himself.

“You reckon the Kell could use a solar panel or two and some batteries? I was thinkin’ we could stay a while, get ‘em stripped down to transmat back, and then, well ... grab a little time to ourselves.”.

She doesn’t miss the tension evident in his stance; it’s clear that's not all that's on his mind. But the silence stretches out until she’s not sure if he has anything else to say … she lets it go, and jumps lightly down off the crate. Whatever it is, she’ll have to wait until he’s ready.

“Good idea. I’ll go and finish up in the armoury, call me when you need me.”.

She heads back down the corridor and his hands twitch with frustration; head full of words, and he couldn’t even start to find the right ones.

* * *

In the end she’s done with her task before he’s really got started on his; the solar power controls are located deep within the guts of the bunker’s control room, and it’s way less straightforward than he’d assumed it would be to isolate them and extract the parts he'll need. When she joins him he’s buried in a component rack, swearing at a recalcitrant connector as he struggles to get purchase with a pair of pliers. She grabs the chair behind the old control desk and settles herself comfortably to spectate as he moves in for another assault.

“Fuck!” It slips out of his grip again and his hand smacks against the edge of the rack. He stands back, furious, breathing hard as his anger swells - at the goddam rack, at himself for his inability to open a conversation he’s desperate to have, at her for making him feel this way - he’s about ready to pick a fight, and she’s the only one within range right now.

“You just gonna sit there?”.

He looks over at her; she’s smiling, damn her, checking out his muscles again. “I like to watch you work.” she murmurs, waving a hand languidly at the view.

“Oh, is that right?”. He tries not to grin, still cranky about his bruised knuckles, but it’s a battle he’s losing. “How ‘bout you get that ass over here and lend a hand? Sooner this is done, sooner you can get your hands on the goods.”.

She grins and slides off the chair. “Here; let me.”. She moves him aside and picks up the pliers, snaking her slimmer hand into the awkward gap with ease. “Get me some more light?”.

He grunts in annoyance and grabs the handlight, standing close behind her to shine it above her head and down on to the spot she needs.

“Perfect.”. She nods crisply, focused on what she’s doing, and he admires the tensing in her shoulders as she works the connector loose. Damn it, he meant to get the talking out of the way before he got horny … nope, too late. She’s too close, she smells too good, and he’s starving for her right now. He won’t be able to think straight.

“There you go.”. She holds up both part and tool with a lazy flourish, giving him the perfect excuse to bring an arm around in front of her and pull her back against him.

“Good work," he murmurs. "How ‘bout we take a break?”.

Her shoulders shake with silent laughter. “Right now?”.

“Baby, you told me to step it up.”. He tightens his grip and nuzzles her neck suggestively, stepping forward so she’s pressed against the rack. “We got the place to ourselves … shame to waste it.”. He bites down gently, just grazing her skin, and feels the ripple of pleasure go down her body. “Oh, you like that, hero?” he croons in her ear.

“_Fuck_ yes ….” is the shaky response, and he instantly does it again harder, making her gasp. His hands slide up under her top to cup her breasts, flicking the nipples through the thin fabric of her binder. She hums happily and pushes against him, demanding more contact, and he slows down to lazy circles.

“If you like it, you gotta tell me … I wanna hear ya.”.

He feels her laugh again. “More, please … “, she whispers, and his cock twitches against her at the pleading tone.

“Oh yeah … just like that.”; and he starts up again, drawing moans of encouragement from her as his touch gets rougher. He shifts one hand to palm down her front and slip into the waistband of her pants, cupping her sex as he presses against her. She’s getting louder, demanding more, and he bites down on her neck again as she cries out. His voice is harsh and low in her ear. “Tell me what you want, silver girl … want me to do you right here, right up against the rack? Want me to shove you up against here and fuck you hard?”.

She grips his hand. “_Fuck_ yes … keep talking …”.

He obeys, whispering filth to her as he eases her pants down, making her wait, making _himself_ wait; telling her all the things he's planning to do to her, how hard, how loud and how often. His hands grip hard then trace featherlight, teasing her with fingertips tickling her flank then gripping her ass and biting her shoulder, just where she likes it. As he slides into her for the first stroke she moans loudly, and he stills with his mouth against her ear. “Do that again …”, he begs. She breathes hard and wets her lips before whispering, “_Make _me.”.

His cock twitches again urgently at the command, and he slams into her, stroke after stroke almost lifting her off her feet. She grips the edge of the rack until her knuckles are white with the tension, arching back against him and letting out a string of whispered curses. If angels swore, that’s what this would sound like … gentle silvery tones sending shivers over his skin from head to toe, stirring the heat in his core until he can hardly breathe. He holds her up against him, wrapping his arms tight around her, and presses his face against her ear, speaking breathlessly as he thrusts.

“_Damn_ that’s good … my silver girl … damn you feel so good …” he keeps up the commentary, even as his words start to slur; “ … oh _fuck_ … m'close …… _fuckfuckFUCKsoclose_ … cum for me baby, wanna feel ya squeeze me … _shit_ …” and he runs out of words, gasping incoherently as she clenches around him and her legs buckle with the intensity of her orgasm. He tightens his grip and races to his own finish with a hoarse cry, clutching at the rack for support as his knees threaten to give way.

It’s a long, precious moment before he can bring himself to let go; the feel of her against him - shaking, panting, damp with sweat - is just too sweet. He buries his face in her neck and leans heavily against her. “Worth the wait ...?” he murmurs unsteadily, and she lets out a hum of agreement, leaning her forehead on the cool metal of the rack while she recovers.

“Always.”.

* * *

They quickly get back to work, regretfully refastening clothes and picking up downed tools; the job still needs doing, even if it was also convenient cover for them to have a little privacy. With her help the rack is dismantled much more easily. In fact it isn’t long before he sits back entirely and just lets her get on with it, stripping down connectors and extracting the control boards with quiet competence.

“You're good with this stuff. Reckon you used t’be an engineer or somethin'?”.

She looks over at him with an odd expression.

“I used to be whatever I needed to be. And you know, these things come with instructions.”. She flicks her eyes pointedly at her helpful ghost, hovering a few feet away and projecting a schematic on the peeling wall for her to follow.

That feels important; like she knows exactly what she used to be and why. He shakes himself - _that ain't how it works_. And _oh now, wait a minute_, she’s teasing him for refusing to ask for help, too - he can't let that slide. He sits back and scratches his beard thoughtfully, arranging himself more comfortably in the chair.

“Well, I’m more the leadership type. I leave the details to my people. Delegation, yeah?”. A suggestive leer makes it clear he’s just discovered the joys of watching people work, certain people anyway, and he’s rewarded by her filthy laugh as she turns back to the rack.

He watches her in appreciative silence for a few minutes more before he realises he hasn’t checked on the food situation - he heads off to find something for dinner, leaving her to finish the job in peace. He chuckles to himself when he sees what’s left in the old canteen store; more survival stew, row upon row of untouched ration tins. Clearly none of the crew wanted to take any back on board. Ah well - it’s more than good enough for him.

By the time the stew is heated he's made a nest of sorts, tucked in the tiny break room at the back of the canteen. It’s bare of furniture now, but he's spread out some tattered soft furnishings on the floor and dropped two bedrolls on top. It’ll do. He leans against the doorframe to review his handiwork, jerking his head behind him when she comes up. “Stew’s ready.”. He has a sudden vision of pushing her down on those cushions and taking her again right there and then, but shakes it loose and turns away. Time enough for that - they still need to talk.

She follows him and takes her portion of stew, cocking her head to listen as she sits down at the counter. There are strains of music coming from a corner where he’s rigged up some old tapes; ancient stuff, crackling and wavering, soul music from way before the dark times. He can’t tell if she likes it or not; she doesn’t comment, just eats in silence as he watches her. She finishes her stew at last and puts her empty dish aside before she looks at him with a faint frown.

“So, what’s on your mind?”.

He looks away hastily. _Everything. The darkness. The end of the world. Losing you._ The music is building to a crescendo, perfectly attuned to his mood; he searches for less desperate words, comes up blank. But she’s still looking at him, calm and open, waiting for him to speak. _She outright asked you, idiot - say somethin’._ At last he sighs heavily and turns back, still not meeting her eyes.

“When we had our little disagreement … I got to thinkin’ what it’d be like if we - if we weren’t a thing any more.”. _If you left me. If you walked away and I never got to touch you again._ He swallows and forces himself to keep going. “I gotta tell ya, I didn’t like that idea. I realised … you might just walk away. You don’t need me like I need you. I don’t even know if you care about me.”.

Her eyes widen; “Why would you think that?”.

His face screws up in misery, and he’s lost for words again. _Dammit_. He stands up instead, comes over to her and wraps his arms around her, burying his face in her hair. Now he can’t see her face it comes easier.

“Last time I tried to ask you, you freaked. Shut down. Scared the hell outta me, so I backed off. I ain’t stupid.”.

He feels her sigh, muffled against his chest. “Yes. I'm sorry. I'm not going anywhere now - tell me what you need to tell me.”.

Well, here it is - no backing out now. He closes his eyes and concentrates on getting the words right. "I guess ... you’re more to me than a hired gun and a fuck buddy. A _lot_ more. I wasn’t kiddin’ when I told you you were it, for me. I don’t want anybody but you, and I don’t see that changin'. But - I don’t think it’s the same for you.”.

“Maybe. But that doesn’t mean you don’t matter to me.” she protests, puling back to look at him. _How much, though? How much do I matter? _he swallows the words unspoken. He wants to believe it, he really does - and she sounds utterly sincere, her hands tracing those soothing circles against his back feel caring, loving even, but he can’t abandon his ingrained mistrust. _Like the universe is finally gonna send me somethin' good and let me keep it. Not gonna happen._

“Hey. Look at me.”, she commands, and he cautiously obeys. She brings one hand up to cup his jaw, gently stroking his cheek with her thumb.

“If you’re asking me if this is love, or something like, then … yes. As close as I can get.”.

His heart swells with unexpected happiness, despite the qualifier, but he has to know - “Why not closer?”.

Her face twists in something like pain. “I’m not good at attachments. Because … “, she hesitates and the pain deepens, “… well, the reasons don’t matter. Anyway, I don’t do emotions very well. And I don’t do exclusive, at all. That’s a problem for most people. Is it a problem for you?”.

“_No_.”. His hands tighten on her, as if she might disappear if he answers wrong. “No. I’m not askin' for exclusive, and I’m not askin' for forever. I just want you with me, for as long as it works.”.

“You need to be sure.” Her eyes track across his face as if scanning him. “I won’t make promises I know I can't keep, so I need to know you’re okay with me just as I am. I don’t want to break you.”.

The sadness is there again; he wonders how many people had to break, before she figured it out, and he laughs ruefully.

“Darlin’, you broke me a long time ago. Best thing that ever happened to me. I’m sure.”. He’s out of words, finally; everything said at long last. “I'm sure.", he repeats.

He steps back, pulling her gently to her feet and straight into a slow dance with her hand in his, pressed against his heart. The track playing now is downbeat but soothing, a cry for love and connection in a minor key, and he swallows hard as the long-ago vocalist sings his thoughts. She feels it; her hand relaxes and re-threads with his in a comforting gesture, her thumb stroking against his. _Hold this feeling_, he thinks. _Hold on to this_. Closing his eyes and breathing her in, focusing desperately on every sense filled with her right now and using it to push back the fear. He clears his mind of everything but her and the music, and breathes easier.

* * *

He’d almost forgotten how good it felt to be held by her, properly held with her arm determinedly wrapped around his waist and pulling him close; when she lifts her face to kiss him he’s already trembling slightly with tension, and he clutches at her. She’s deliberately gentle in response, moving her hands up to stroke his neck and shoulders before pulling back to look at him thoughtfully. She seems satisfied; a slow smile starts and she moves in for a deeper kiss before breaking away and walking to the break room. He follows as she turns and falls back on the cushions, dropping to his knees in front of her and stripping off his shirt. “Nice.”. She smiles lazily and runs her fingertips gently down his chest, tracing around the scars. His breath hitches at the almost loving touch, and the admiration in her eyes. _She can’t mean it. I’m a mess_. But her hands keep moving on him, hungry touches becoming more urgent, and he melts into the sensation.

He takes his time unwrapping her this time, removing her loose top and binder first and running his hands over her smooth skin, memorising the feel of her. When she’s bare to the waist he nuzzles into her breasts, taking one nipple in his mouth and teasing it with his tongue while cupping and rolling the other, and she digs her nails into his back. He’s fully hard already, desperately trying to hold himself together as she clutches at him. When he disengages and moves down, kissing a trail to her navel, she takes a shaky breath and lifts her hips, a silent command. He grins and complies. Rolling down her pants inch by inch, he places slow open-mouthed kisses on each section of skin he uncovers until he reaches her mons. He deliberately halts there, barely touching her, and relishes her impatience as her hands clench in his hair.

He teases with the gentlest of touches until she’s gasping, then slides his hands under her ass for support and dives in to cover her with his whole mouth, sucking and lapping as her moans rise in pitch. It’s the sweetest music to his ears; knowing it’s him making his silent hero sing out with such desperate abandon. The friction against his cock as he moves up and down is driving him crazy; he steps up the pace, working his tongue against her swollen clit until she cries out, pressing herself up against him as her whole body ripples with pleasure.

He holds her steady while she comes down, letting her down against the cushions and moving up her body to watch her face as she recovers. She gives him a shaky nod of approval and trails her fingers gently across his face while she catches her breath. “Pleased with yourself?.” she whispers. He doesn’t answer, just smirks.

He runs his hand slowly down her front now, watching in delight how she shivers in anticipation of his touch, and leans in to kiss her thoroughly before sitting up to undo his pants. She quickly stays his hand, twisting to push him down in turn; smiles slowly at his frustrated face and moves down his body to finish the job. He hisses with pleasure “… _fuck_ yeah …" as her cool hands release his cock and stroke down and up; his hips jerk up, trying to thrust into her grip, and she pushes him back down firmly.

“Stay.” she commands, and he stills obediently, holding his breath.

She lowers her head and takes him fully into her mouth, making him groan as she hums against him and the vibration jolts through him. He can feel it right down to his toes, every part of him tensing as she starts to move, sliding up and down and flattening her tongue against his shaft. She halts at the top of the stroke and swirls her tongue around his tip before diving back down and taking him in fully again, and he breathes heavily, wrapping his hands in the fabric underneath him. She keeps up this rhythm, building him up patiently, dragging desperate words from him as he unashamedly begs for more. “Please, silver girl … please _oh yeah fuck right there that’s so good_ … c'mon darlin’ _fucking christ do that again_ oh fuck … fuck I’m close _oh shit_ … _yeah right there _...“ over and over and over; he’s rigid from head to toe, teeth gritted and fingers tangled in the bedrolls, before she finally comes up and leans over him, one hand gripping his slick cock and stroking lazily to keep him on the boil. “Ready?” she murmurs.

He rolls her over instantly, fumbling to keep his balance as he spreads her legs and drives up into her with a strangled grunt. He manages a few deep strokes, breathing hard, before his control deserts him and he shudders, mumbling against her neck “... can’t hold it… oh _fuck_ ..” and he throws his head back and whimpers, pounding into her faster and faster. His peak crashes though him like a tidal wave, robbing him of speech and breath and rhythm; he slams into her one last time and grinds out a long breathless groan as he pulses deep inside her. It seems to go on for ever. He stays perfectly still for a long time, burrowing deep into her with his eyes squeezed shut; he wants to climb in and never come out. Eventually his arms give out and he flops down on her. 

She catches him smoothly, gathering him into her and holding him as he shakes. She’s stroking his hair, murmuring something, he can’t tell what over the roaring in his ears; he’s dizzy, blinded, terrified at the intensity of it, dreading the end of it at the same time. When the shaking finally abates a little he rolls slowly off her to gather his wits. He’s utterly exhausted but at the same time still tense - he could go again, he realises, if she just made the right move in this instant. He tries to speak, gets only a strangled hiss; swallows and tries again.

“Y’did it t’me again.” he whispers, trying to suppress a blissful grin. He fails.

* * *

When he finally trusts his legs to hold him, he pads down the corridor to check in with the ship. “No point stayin’ up all night to get this done; we’ll bunk down here, finish it in the mornin’.”. There’s a knowing edge in Jacob’s voice as he agrees and signs off; he knows what’s up. Drifter sighs contentedly as he slides back into the bedroll nest and pulls her warm body against him, grinning at her sleepy protest at the sudden chill.

“Silver,” he murmurs against her neck. “Do somethin’ for me.”. She makes a questioning ‘hm’ in the darkness.

“Say my name … just once.”.

He feels her laugh silently, then she whispers “Drifter …”. He shivers. It sounds like a celestial temptation.

She rolls over slowly to face him and burrows into his chest, slipping an arm around his waist.

“That’s still not your name.” she murmurs against his skin.

He chuckles. “So? You gotta call me somethin’.”.

She’s silent for a minute then raises her lips to his ear and murmurs “Eli.”. And she tucks her head back down with a drowsy sigh. He says nothing, just holds her tighter. _Seize the moment_.


	29. Messages From Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy ever after, roll credits ...? Not necessarily. Drifter gets yet another friendly warning, and Sully's mail catches up with them.

The dark hours tick by; it’s the closest he’s felt to secure for a long while, and he keeps half-waking just so he can feel her against him, smiling sleepily then drifting off again to the rhythm of her breathing.

Eventually he surfaces to a less welcome sound; a little voice on the edge of consciousness - fussy, apologetic, tinny, _annoying_ \- he opens one eye and squints across. He can’t tell how many hours have passed, but the ghost is hovering a couple of feet away casting a dim blue glow over them.

“It’s going to get light soon - you probably should get moving. Sorry.”.

He grunts in protest; she’s warm and soft against him, secure in the circle of his arms, almost like being back in their pillow fort on the Derelict. _Don't wanna get up_, his inner child grumbles. He feels her laugh silently, as if she heard it, and she shifts slightly. He tightens his grip; “Hey, what’s your hurry …? we got some time yet. C’mere …”. He pulls her back and nuzzles her neck, grinning as her hand flops back to caress his face. She sounds drowsily happy, as she murmurs “Damn right.”, and waves a dismissive gesture at the ghost. It tactfully dims and vanishes, and the darkness falls back.

* * *

It doesn’t feel like morning, down in the dark; one of the reasons he ended up near-psychotic during his extended stay there all those years ago, denied the normal rhythm of day and night. But once they regretfully untangle from each other and pull on their clothes it’s obvious the ghost is right, with tiny glimpses of light peeping around the edges of the trapdoor and creating a subdued pale glow at the top of the stairs. If he thought he could get away with it he'd come up with a different excuse to delay the inevitable, stay another night, but there’s no room now for further indulgence. Time is running short.

The bunker gradually returns to its abandoned state, the circles of light and busyness collapsing room by room as he pulls up the glows and bundles them in his hand, walking back up the corridor to the transmat. He farms every opportunity to touch her while he still can - fingers brushing hers as they pass, a hand on her waist as he reaches for something next to her, a sneaky caress if she stands still long enough. And of course his personal favourite, wrapping his arms around her from behind and nibbling kisses under her ear, evoking their encounter up against the component rack. If he’s not careful he’ll be heading out with a raging hard on - but he figures it’s worth it. He’s determined not to have any regrets where this one is concerned, not this time. Life is too short, and the lives of people who get mixed up with him unnaturally so … he’ll grab every moment he can, and bear with the trivial discomfort.

Eventually there are no more ways to stall. The bulky pile of goods is ready to go; in all they’ve salvaged just one complete solar panel, one of the huge batteries standing almost as tall as him - and that was no fun to wrestle along the corridor, even with light-assisted strength - and a bundle of control boards and spare parts. He places the repaired beacon and hits the ready signal, and as soon as the load is gone he pulls up the beacon and follows Sully up top.

Being underground again, in this place with so many dead memories attached, he’d forgotten how completely the settlement had been levelled; as he emerges into the daylight it takes him a second to adjust to present-day ruined reality, half wondering where the hell the warehouse disappeared to in the night. Expecting the dim, echoing arches of the old empty building above his head, he halts momentarily to orient himself, scanning the thin gray soil, the bones of the old city poking through, the total absence of sound and movement - everything silent and lifeless in the thin morning sun. With one swift glance around to check for danger - ever paranoid - he heaves the trapdoor shut to seal the bunker up once more. He doesn’t bother covering it up; if anyone else finds it now they’re welcome to it. Last night’s brief idyll has given him a newly-positive association with the old hole in the ground, but if he personally never sees it again it’ll be too soon.

* * *

“How was your night?” Jacob smirks as they arrive back aboard. Drifter fixes him with a glare, then cracks into an unwilling grin.

“Just fine, thanks for askin’. Any trouble from the crew?”.

“Nothing to speak of. Well, only Marta, being … Marta. Caught her trying transmat down to the planet in the middle of the night, saying she ‘had a feeling' you were in trouble. When it wouldn’t operate - she decided Sully must've trashed the beacon on purpose to keep you to herself. Held you down there against your will, you poor, poor man.”. He huffs in exasperation. “I shouldn’t laugh - she caused a hell of a scene, honestly.”.

Drifter barks a laugh. “She don’t give up, does she. I’m gonna put her ashore soon as we get back to the Reef, let her make her own way home. She ain’t workin’ out.”.

Jacob nods firmly. “Good. She’s been nothing but trouble. Should’ve listened to Sully.”.

Drifter laughs again, bitterly this time.

“Kid, you can carve that on my gravestone.“.

* * *

The Kell receives their offering with a satisfied smile just curving her lips, looking over the equipment and signalling her staff to contact the technical team who’ll be looking after it.

“A most welcome addition to our power generation capacity; we thank you.”. She gives a formal bow aimed at Drifter, which he awkwardly acknowledges - she still makes him nervous. Family trait, he reflects. He watches Sully step away to talk to the arriving techs, unaware of the resentful expression that crosses his face as she leaves his side, and too late realises he’s now the sole focus of the Kell’s attention.

“I was right. You are theirs.”.

He looks up, startled; she’s openly smirking at him. Even here, where nobody knows him; even now, when he’s held her close and told her how much she means to him - his barriers slam up. The more people who know about him and Sully, the more it puts them both in danger, the sort of danger that seems to end everybody he gets close to. Even he doesn’t know how many enemies he’s still got alive out there, and as for her … he boggles momentarily trying to imagine her knowingly leaving a foe standing. Doesn’t seem like her style somehow. But still, his instincts are ingrained - avoid, obstruct, evade, never let people be sure what’s what until you’ve decided what you need them to think. Survive at all costs. He dissembles automatically.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t say that exactly. Nothin’ official.”.

“Oh? You are remarkably possessive of them, for ’nothing official’.”.

Damn it, she’s no easier to fool than the titan. He grimaces in irritation and pointedly avoids answering, crossing his arms and turning to watch Sully. The Kell sits back, satisfied that she’s hit the mark.

“I do not usually offer unsolicited warnings to strangers, but I think you stand in need of it.”.

He frowns at her, trying to work out if he can tell her to go to hell without causing a diplomatic incident. She reads his anger and holds up a hand in gentle warning.

“Only this; I will warn you to be satisfied - they clearly care for you, to go to so much trouble for you. You have no idea how rare that is. But you cannot own them. If you try, you will drive them away.”.

In his resentment he doesn’t bother to ask how she knows that; it’s just a new riff on a never-ending theme - literally everybody who knows the titan has told him something similar. _Yeah yeah, I can't have 'em. What do they all know that I don’t?_ But as he continues to brood it hits him that he just wasted an important chance to actually find out … and now it’s too late. The job is finished, the handover is complete, and it’s time to get moving. He mentally kicks himself and adds it to his one-of-these-days list of things to tackle.

* * *

The bunker was the last stash he’d aimed to recover this time around; of course there are more, dotted about this system and others, but there will be other times when he’ll need to have a little something in reserve. For now it’s time to get home, the final leg of this trip bringing them back to the vicinity of the Shore so he can lay up this vessel in a safe spot and close down some final business.

That business includes informing Marta of her dismissal, as coldly and as publicly as possible, not caring if she makes a scene. After all she’s shown no such concern for anyone else’s feelings in all of her time on the crew, and besides - it’s a message to everyone, just in case. A teaching opportunity, if you will … cross the Drifter after he’s held out his hand in friendship, make a nuisance of yourself in any way, and you’re off his crew, no appeals. She sits in wide-eyed silence for several seconds.

“No. You can’t. You can’t do this.”. Her hands clench and unclench as she stares at him. “You need me.”.

He laughs in her face at that. “Princess, I really don’t. You’re deadweight. More trouble than you’re worth.”.

She steps towards him in a rush, up in his personal space, clutching at his arm. “Give me another chance … I -“.

He shakes her off impatiently. “You had your chance. You’re done. Go pack ya stuff and get ready to leave. I want you gone as soon as we make port.”.

She rounds in panic on the rest of the silently watching crew, appealing for support - and finds none. They’re all carefully blank; not one of them wants her here, and not one will defend her. Too late she’s discovering that relationships - genuine ones - need effort, and she’s poured all of hers into chasing a man who isn’t remotely interested. Even Asa, who she's adopted as her backup plan, shrugs awkwardly and looks away when she stares at him in desperation. It's no surprise then that there are no fond goodbyes; they all turn away and find other things to do as she sulks her way off the ship dragging her kit bag. Drifter stands in the hatch with his arms crossed until she’s off the walkway then seals it with finality.

“Okay, let's get movin'.”.

As he gets back to the bridge and lays the next set of coordinates the comm panel pings. He checks the message and hunches forward with a satisfied smirk; a credit transfer has just come in, a sizeable heap of glimmer and some essential goods in exchange for the terraforming control panels he’s managed to offload. Jacob checks the numbers over his shoulder and whistles, impressed.

“Nice. What are we gonna spend it on?”.

Drifter considers; it’s a legitimate question with the impending disaster approaching, and he doesn’t want to be left holding worthless currency. Glimmer at least has intrinsic value, as long as you have it in your hand and not as numbers on a screen … he considers for a moment.

“Well, I got some things to buy. As for the rest … we’ll take it out of the vault, bit by bit so we don’t spook people, and store it.”.

Plans decided, he goes to make up the new rota; taking Marta off the list will leave a hole in coverage. He snorts; not _that_ big a hole, since someone had to redo whatever she did at least once a day, but still. He starts arranging names, considering the watch rota in particular. Only a few days more before they’re back at the Tower, and he wants as much alone time with his titan as he can get now … but he also needs her taking a watch so he’s sure of having one of his key people about at all hours. Leadership’s a bitch - and he can’t let his feelings take priority over the wider mission, at least no more than they already have. He sighs, and leaves the rota as it is.

* * *

<Huh … we must have passed a relay beacon this morning sometime; I’m receiving a backlog of messages.>

_from who?_

<Zavala again - marked ‘urgent'.>

_they’re all marked urgent_

<Er, yes. One from Ikora marked - uh, 'eyes-only', ‘FYI', and 'at your convenience'. Wow.>

_okay, queue that_

_what else?_

<Just one more; it’s from Maas.>

_that one first_

Sully gets comfortable in a corner of the workshop down in the hold, watching the mid-air display projected by the ghost resolve into Maas’s face; behind him there’s a blur of out-of-focus activity and the muted hum of people chattering and moving things in haste from one place to another. Screen-Maas leans forward so his tattooed face fills the pickup and grins conspiratorially.

"Hey, how’s it going? Dina wouldn’t let us ship out without telling you where we’re going, so if we all get court-martialled you can blame her. We’re heading back to the moon!”.

His air of secretive glee is derailed slightly by the sudden background chorus of "WE”RE GOING TO THE MOON!!”, with hooting and cheering, from everyone else; he rolls his eyes. “That’s our crack squad of secret operatives right there, the best the Vanguard can muster.”. He turns away to frown at the others with an exaggerated ‘hush’ gesture, and turns back.

“So, anyway, apparently it’s boiling over with Hive and nobody knows why, but since when did we need a reason to fight things? Get your ass back here before you miss all the fun. We need you to come punch things for us - your replacement just ain’t working out. He only just figured out not to melee the exploders.”.

“That was one time!”, yells a single background voice reproachfully.

“Yeah, one time and a blast radius of a hundred yards. Funniest thing I ever saw … “. Maas chuckles evilly before sobering again, glancing up at the pickup with his best puppy dog eyes. 

“ … anyway. We miss you, buddy. Hurry back.”.

Sully sits back as the message fades out, a fond smile twitching on their lips. The warlock always did have the power to lift their spirits.

<That sounds like something we need to check out as soon as we get back. Ikora’s next?>

_yes_

<It’s all text; I’ll transfer it so you can read it. Shall I play you Zavala’s audio message?>

Sully’s shoulders tense momentarily before they forcibly relax, clenching and unclenching their hands a few times, and nod curtly. As they pick up a datapad and hold it out for the ghost to transfer Ikora's file the audio begins, and they go unnaturally still as Zavala’s brief but heartfelt apology fills the air. They sit motionless for so long that the ghost begins to panic.

<Guardian - is something wrong?>

They look up at the little drone, their face calm but shuttered, and stare blankly for a second.

_no_

_it’s fine_

_send a response, please_

_‘apology accepted'_


	30. Diagnostic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drifter hasn't forgotten that he has obligations - and a business to run. But coming back within reach of the Vanguard means his comfortable arrangement with Sully might be in jeopardy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're new to this fic and arrived at this chapter before reading any of the previous ones, check out Chapter 20 for the 'skyhooks' reference. And if you liked the terrible engineering puns - and even if you didn't - you should know I have a lot more where those came from, and I actually showed considerable restraint :)

The ship is deserted, quiet and dark apart from a muted pool of light on the bridge, an occasional barely-there _click_ as he switches feeds to check each section of the ship before closing it down. His face is blank, intent on the task, almost cold in the bluish glow cast back by the console.

_Click_. The main hold and its alcoves, cleared and swabbed down. Everything transferred to the Derelict now, nothing left aboard.

_Click_. The engine room, still and cold for the last two days since they made final port. They’ve even stripped out everything they can use from the old tool store.

_Click_; crew dorm deserted, bunks stripped and folded back against the wall for the last time.

_Click_. The bare corridor. The crew themselves are gone now, paid off with thanks and scattered obediently in response to his orders. _Get outta here, keep busy, be ready when I tell ya_. He’ll need them again soon enough, if he’s reading the signs right, but for now he needs them to be elsewhere. They don’t need to know everything he’s involved in. Quite the reverse.

_Click_. The sleep pod … _their_ sleep pod, now just another anonymous grey cubby off the corridor, mattress bare, bedrolls and blankets gone. Lockers hanging open to show there’s nothing left behind. He never did get around to searching them, and he’s still none the wiser what she was keeping in them, if anything. Doesn’t matter now.

_Click_. He kills all the vid feeds and enters the final command to lock up the ship for storage. Time to move on.

* * *

It takes him a full half-day to check every corner of the Derelict once he gets back on board; external seals showed no sign of tampering, and neither Jacob nor Sully reported anything untoward while they were dealing with the cargo transfers, but still … he has to be sure. Once he’s done the rounds of every trap and telltale he finally relaxes a notch or two - although in his case the difference between ‘screaming red alert’ and ‘faint twang of background paranoia’ is a fine line, one that most people would struggle to differentiate.

At the back of his mind, feeding that tension, is the question of what happens next - specifically, what happens to him and Sully once they get back to the Tower. All the way back from their final mission he’s been trying to envisage how it’ll work once she’s back within hailing distance of the Vanguard, not to mention her clan and all her other friends. For the few hours a night that they share a bed she’s still his silver girl, wrapping herself around him with sleepy smiles; but by day he can almost see her Tower persona re-emerging, settling around her like a familiar cloak, solemn and non-verbal. He needs to find out what’s what, and the sooner the better.

He puts on more coffee, his default response to any knotty problem, and grins as he hears footsteps approaching the bridge. Something about a fresh brew seems to fetch one or both of them every time, like some kind of summoning spell … sure enough, Jacob appears at the open hatch with a hopeful face. With luck that means his list of tasks is done, and Drifter can move him along to the next job.

“So, what’s next?”. Like he read his partner’s mind, Jacob flops down in a command chair and grasps his coffee cup thankfully. “Please tell me we’re done travelling for a while.”.

Drifter has to chuckle at his plaintive tone. “Yeah, for a while. Time to get Gambit up and runnin’ again - we need more motes in the bank. I’ll need you to go down and get the Grave arena ready.”.

Jacob nods and relaxes back into the chair. “Sounds good to me. When?”.

When he doesn’t get an immediate answer he turns and looks at Drifter, and groans at the meaningful smirk he’s being given.

“Oh, you’re kidding me … right now?”.

Drifter laughs out loud and claps him on the shoulder.

“Right now, kid. Time’s tickin’ - and I’d be obliged if you could just be elsewhere for a few hours, if you catch my drift.”.

He flicks his eyes meaningfully in the direction of the hold, where Sully’s been busy the past couple of hours sorting through the last of the weaponry from the bunker, and waits patiently for the rookie to catch on. He’s not disappointed; Jacob squeezes his eyes shut and grimaces like a toddler sampling overcooked broccoli.

“Bleurgh. I do _not_ need to know about your sex life, thanks very much. Okay, I’m out of here.”.

He drags himself back to his feet, downing his coffee, and heads to the transmat.

* * *

Sully’s just finished with the final crate from the armoury stash when the comms panel on the wall next to her crackles into to life with Drifter’s voice.

"Come down here a minute? Somethin' I need you to look at in the engine room.”.

He signs off without waiting for an answer; a few minutes later she steps through the door wiping the dust and oil smears off her hands with a rag. Since they’re just hanging in static orbit the engine room is uncharacteristically quiet, only the faint hum of life support systems somewhere at the far end of the walkway and the occasional whump as the air scrubber completes a cleaning cycle. When she finds him he’s leaning against one of the massive junction boxes with a wrench held loosely in his hand, looking sorrowfully down at the floor; there’s a smudge of oil decorating her cheekbone that she hasn’t dealt with yet, and he finds himself staring at it, fighting the urge to stroke it away with his thumb. Even stripped down for physical work, covered in dust and smeared with dirt, she still looks delicious. She stops and looks at him in concern.

“Problem?”.

“Yeah, I dunno. It just don’t sound right … you hear that?”.

She stills and listens, confused. “I don’t hear anything.”.

“Right? That’s what I mean.”. He stands up and turns her gently to stand where he was. “How about now?”.

She opens her mouth to respond - and is promptly silenced as he kisses her, cupping her face to hold her steady. She hums faintly, equal parts protest and desire, and he pulls back for a second, eyes sparking with amusement.

“That’s better, I guess. But as I recall, it ought to be louder. How ‘bout if I do this?”.

He closes in again and repeats the kiss, deeper and more intense; the wrench drops to the floor and his free hand traces circles on her back, moving slowly down to her ass until she moans quietly against him.

“Yeah, more like that.”.

He’s beyond pleased with himself; he grins wickedly, stepping forward to press her against the metal behind her.

“Best to be sure, huh - better go for a full diagnostic.”.

She can’t help but chuckle at his whimsy, even as the familiar sweet ache starts to build within her. Moonlight and roses are in short supply these days, but who needs that when your man knows just how to make you smile? “Sound engineering practice.”, she agrees breathlessly, grasping his shirt and pulling him in.

“Oh yeah, 'm all 'bout sound practice.” he mumbles against her cheek, kissing a trail to her ear and down her neck while his hands slide up under her vest. She arches against him when his lips fasten on that magic spot on her collarbone, sucking hard and working his teeth gently against the skin; he growls happily and lifts his head for a second.

“Think I found the problem; gonna need to get the cover off to be sure.”.

He moves in again, sliding his fingers into the hem of her pants suggestively, but she grabs his hand.

“Wait - where’s Jacob?”.

“Mmmmf …”, he reluctantly pulls away just a fraction,” …skyhooks…”, and she chuckles as she gets the reference.

“Carry on, then.”.

He doesn’t need telling twice; his kisses get sloppier and more urgent against her skin as he gets a hand inside her pants, sliding an eager finger into her and curling it slightly to hit her sweet spot. She rocks her hips against him with an urgent whine and digs her nails into his neck.

“What’s that, baby? Full power?”, he murmurs.

“_Fuck_ yes - max it out, let’s see what happens …”, she breathes, and he shudders hungrily at the want in her voice. He adds a second finger, then a third, working her almost to her peak, then extracts his hand and kneels, slowly stripping her pants down as he goes and kissing a trail down from her navel. He halts for a second before flattening his tongue against her clit until she curses breathlessly and grips the edge of the box behind her for support.

“Now we’re gettin' somewhere,” he croons, straightening up again. “Let’s see how she runs …”.

He’s back on his feet and releasing his straining cock before she gathers her breath to answer, lifting her up and sliding smoothly into her, drawing out the moment to watch the bliss ripple across her face. He bottoms out with a quiet groan of his own and halts for a second as she wraps her legs around him and grips his shoulders.

He swallows hard and starts thrusting slowly into her, marvelling at the waves of light pulsing under her skin. Such a beautiful sight, the way she lights up under his touch, and the way she bites her lip and _oh fuck_ the way she moans … _there’s no rush, there’s no rush, we got hours yet, no rush_ … he keeps it slow and steady, rising up against her and sealing each stroke with a deep kiss, feeling the strong muscle in her thigh tensing against his hand as he holds her in place and dives in for another. He’s fighting a losing battle, same as ever; trying to contain his building tension when everything she does bombards his senses like this. Every part of him wants to soak her up, even his pores widening to take her in. _Fuck_.

She tilts her hips a fraction and breathes heavily as the new angle hits just the right spot, tangling her fingers in his hair and pulling his head back; he groans at the feel of it and the sound of it and the sight of it and _oh shit nearly there hang in there little buddy, you can do this_ but he’s soaring helplessly to his finish even as he scolds himself to slow down, to wait for her, _easy now, wanna watch her cum_ … he makes it, just barely; she tenses and cries out “Oh .. _fuck_ yes yes _yes_…”, and he whimpers uncontrollably and spills over, shuddering to a blissful halt and pulsing deep inside her. _Damn, that was close_. He holds her tight and leans in for support, breathing hard.

She moves slightly against him, bringing her lips to his ear with a chuckle in her voice. “Seems to be working fine now. Must’ve been a glitch.”.

He lets out an exhausted snicker against her neck and manages a weak shrug. “Well, I dunno. Reckon we should run through another cycle just to be sure.”.

* * *

The second cycle takes them as far as the bridge, checking everything still works against assorted corridor walls; the sight of her walking ahead of him naked from the waist down, discarded pants slung over her shoulder, is just too much. There's a third against the comm panel, after it turned out the maintenance window was even tighter than they suspected. A fourth reboot has them tumbling slowly together into the pillow fort for some fine-tuning; stripping off what’s left of their clothes, a sensuous exercise in exploring each other from head to toe and back again, skin to skin. Eventually they run out of energy and engineering double entendres; he gathers her against his chest and falls back against the cushions.

“Okay, I believe ya. Everything’s workin' fine.”.

She doesn’t answer directly; just a sleepy murmur of assent, muffled against his skin. He could lie like this forever, given the chance … but he still hasn’t asked the all-important question. Regretfully he shifts so he can look at her, stroking her face with a cautious finger.

“Couple more days, we’ll be back at the Tower.”.

Another murmur; her eyes stay resolutely closed.

“You gonna pick up again with the Vanguard?”.

Her eyes open at that; she peers up at him. “You want me to?”.

He sighs heavily. “I want you here … but they’re gonna want you back.”.

Even half asleep, she can read the anxiety underlying the prosaic statement. She snuggles back into him, sliding an arm around his waist and tracing circles on his back to soothe him. “I’m going to check in with them; but I’ll be back. There’s stuff happening we need to know more about.”.

His heart swells briefly at that ‘we’ - that’s answer enough. _It’s okay. She’s on the crew. She’s still with me_. He lets himself relax, falling into dreamless sleep with her wrapped around him.


	31. The Way Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time slips, Vex invasions and Hive incursions notwithstanding, a surprise visitor provides Ikora with renewed hope.

* * *

* * *

**SHINE**

**Xe (n) /ˈzɛ - lit. ‘shine’. **

  1. **Reflection of sun or moon on deep water**

  2. **Pathway to the light**

**Of the many Eliksni words that relate to light, ‘xe’ is probably the most specific, relating solely to the reflection of a light source on a moving surface. It is almost never seen in prosaic or technical texts; its most frequent usage is as a poetic signifier for the pathway to another world, as in the line of light leading to the moon rising over the sea.**

* * *

The little hunting party is in serious trouble. What was supposed to be a simple outing to show the boys how to bring down small game for the day’s meal has turned into a desperate scramble for survival, attacked by wave after wave of eyeless clawed creatures constantly renewing from some invisible source. They’ve brought down as many as they could and fled for cover, but he’s beginning to doubt they’ll ever see home again. His heart almost breaks. If they fall, nobody will ever know how much courage these youngsters showed today. They will all die here, unsung and unremembered.

He braces himself, lifting his wholly inadequate hunting blade - _fool_ that he is not to have brought his blaster just in case - and waits for the boys to follow suit. Then he begins the chant, slow and deliberate. They say some of these creatures can sing death into being; perhaps they can have fear sung into them the same way. At the very least he will go down like a soldier, singing furious defiance.

He visibly swells with relief when a voice somewhere out there answers the chant - it doesn’t seem possible, he didn't even dare to hope, but help has arrived. The cacophony outside swirls into a new pattern, a blend of wailing dismay from the creatures punctuated by blades brutally slicing through chitin, smashing faces, crumpling vertebrae; occasional curses in a language he can’t understand, but if it doesn’t translate to something along the lines of ‘fuck you, and fuck your sword too’ then he’s a hatchling. Hope flares - and is quashed almost as quickly when he realises that's just one voice out there. Just one person up against the horde that sent him and seven armed companions into hiding. However angry they are, they don’t stand a chance. He grips his weapon tighter again and prepares for the inevitable.

But to his growing astonishment the noise dies away bit by bit until there are no more voices; just the screech of dying grubs and the metallic whisper of their hosts falling away to dust … and then silence. Suddenly he’s not at all sure he’s ready to meet the cause.

He isn’t given a choice. Swift steps approach before he can gather his wits to retreat, and a pale face appears above him where he’s crouched in the hollow. 

“All clear. Get the children out of here.”.

The instruction is terse but not hostile; they’re gone before he can respond and he cautiously scrambles after them to make sure his eyes aren’t playing tricks on him. If he’s not mistaken their lone rescuer is a Terran, a fragile squishy human; a Thief. A slim, medium-tall, colourless figure, tattered and bloodstained, he watches them quartering the now-silent battleground turning over the piles of crumbled chitin, stashing small chunks of it in their pack for some purpose he doesn’t want to enquire too closely into, and thoughtfully hefting a huge notched sword they’ve retrieved from the heap.

He hesitates before approaching them, trying to get their measure; he may never underestimate Terrans again. They ignore him until he gets close enough to almost touch them, at which they finally look up and directly at him with calm backlit silver/grey eyes. Ah, Awoken. Might explain why they know some Eliksni.

“You’re very far from home.”, he ventures cautiously. They look confused; he clarifies. “The Reef. Yes?”.

“Not home to me. I don’t shine bright enough.”. They seem entirely relaxed about that; like something that happened so long ago they can’t be bothered to be angry about it any more.

“Then where is home?”.

They stare at nothing as if they’re doing complex calculations in their head; finally … “I don’t know. Nowhere feels right.”.

“Home is wherever friends are found. And you have made some friends today.”. He may get into trouble later, but he’ll be docked all over again before he lets a marvel like this one loose in the wilds this near to the village without establishing friendly relations.

And that’s why, returning home, there’s an extra one in the column; the boys cluster around the stranger in fascination, their first encounter with one of their kind, asking eager questions that for the most part have no answers - including “what is your name?". By the time the gates come into sight this has been rectified. He exchanges salutes with the gate guard and indicates their new companion.

“Our House has a new friend. This is Shine.”.

* * *

* * *

_Discipline is everything. I can do this. I can DO this._

Ikora resolutely pushes the covers aside and plants both feet on the floor; she flinches as the cold strikes up through her bare soles, and she hastily stands and slides on her boots before she has a chance to waver. It’s altogether too cold, too dark, and above all too damned _early_ to be out of bed, but sleep has become a luxury she can’t afford to hoard these days.

The washed-out sun is barely peeping over the horizon, caged by thick horizontal bars of grey cloud, by the time she reaches her vantage point in the deserted courtyard. The portal in its scaffold looms in front of her, offering some protection from the fine drizzle driving sideways across the Tower, but even so it’s not long before cold droplets are running down her neck. She grimaces irritably and pulls her cloak tighter around her.

She’s not entirely sure why she’s been up so early the past few days; certainly the dreams aren't helping, full of vague symbology about being caught unprepared or missing a window of opportunity that she can’t quite recall when she wakes - but she knows a portent when she sees one, and Ophi is instructed to have her awake and ready for action half an hour before dawn until she specifies otherwise. He hovers next to her now, not liking the moisture in the air any more than she does but determined to show support. He doesn’t like to see his guardian so on edge like this, pacing and frowning, but he has no solutions for her; and when she lets out an impatient oath and starts climbing the scaffold he vibrates like a bird ruffling its feathers, shaking the accumulated droplets off his shell, and follows her anxiously.

She reaches the top and stares out across the city, sparse pinpricks of light here and there on the dark buildings marking people starting their day in the dawn gloom. She can’t see any danger out there in the dark, even straining her senses beyond the merely physical, but she can’t escape the feeling that she’s being observed.

“Goodness, you’re up early.”.

The silvery voice makes her start, whirling around with a double fistful of void light before she places the sound and huffs in disbelief. Tucked into a corner of the scaffold, between a crate of waiting parts and the railing, there’s the prodigal silver titan, mouth quirked in an ironic smile. She sighs and relaxes, letting the stored power in her hands dissipate harmlessly.

“I could say the same to you. I can only assume you stayed up all night, otherwise you would be far less cheerful right now.”.

Sully laughs quietly. “You know it. I wanted to see this portal everyone is gossiping about, without causing a fuss.”. They tap their knuckles against the railing, listening approvingly to the booming tone it produces. “Nice. Solid construction.”.

Ikora acknowledges that with a faint nod, but she knows the hero hasn’t come back to talk about build quality. “We thought we might not see you again. Of course I’m glad you decided to return home, but … can I ask the reason?”.

Sully emerges from their hiding place, standing up and stretching out the kinks with a sigh. “It was always the plan. A round trip to collect some goods, and back to pick up business as usual.”.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”. There’s a tart edge to Ikora’s voice, but also a hint of amusement. At the back of her mind has always been the fear that she’s lost a friend - not just a guardian, not just an asset, but someone with whom she can share some small part of her fears and concerns. Sully leaving the way they did could easily have marked the end of that, and seeing them back here with that impish smirk, teasing her as if nothing has changed, disproportionately lifts her spirits. She looks away hastily to hide an unwilling smile, but she knows she’s not fooling the titan. She shakes her head and frames the direct question she really wants the answer to. “Are you back with us - with the Vanguard? Can I ask you for help? I need to know where we stand.”.

Sully sobers and leans against the railing, considering. “Where we always stood. You are my friend, and if I can help you I will. I read all your briefings. But I don’t work for you any more, not like before. What do you need right now?”.

There’s an uncomfortable silence while Ikora works out, from the hundred or so competing priorities on her mental list, which task demands the attention of Sully’s particular skillset. Finally she spreads her hands in a gesture of defeat.

“I hardly know where to start … there is so much to be done. Will you go to the Moon for me? I think, once you get there, you will see for yourself what needs to be done. And keep me informed. I know you never wanted to be one of my Hidden, but … between us, I need someone to report with an unprejudiced eye. I think I can still count on you for that.”.

“Always.”. There’s no levity in Sully’s face now; they straighten up and head to the steps, clasping Ikora’s arm in a brief gesture of reassurance as they pass her. The warlock hesitates for a second before asking one more question. “Does he treat you well? The Drifter, I mean. Are you happy?”.

That gets a bitter laugh, floating back through the rain, and Sully turns back briefly. “My emotional range doesn’t stretch to ‘happy’. But it feels right.”.

That doesn’t seem like enough, to Ikora; there’s mingled hope and doubt on her face as she watches Sully cross the courtyard and disappear into the tunnels on the far side. That doesn’t sound like commitment. _Maybe we’ll get them back after all_.

* * *

<You’re wrong, you know.>

_oh?_

<About not being happy.>

_i never said i was unhappy_

_i just don’t know what ‘happy' is supposed to feel like_

_i used to think people were making it up when they talked about their feelings, you know_

_so extreme all the time_

<Are you sure you don't feel anything around him? I mean, your vitals pick up every time you see him ...>

_damn right_

<Ew, don’t smirk like that. That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it.>

_i wouldn’t be with him so much if it didn’t feel safe_

_is that good enough for you?_

<’Safe’ is a good start. I still think it’s more than that.>

_you know what, sparky - you’re a hopeless romantic_

<Ugh. I wish you wouldn’t call me that.>


	32. Lunatic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A simple surveillance mission turns into a firefight - which is just how the clan likes it.

Loose stones skitter down the slope, high above Crota's temple; a lone knight halts briefly to survey the avenue then grunts in satisfaction and shoulders its sword, trudging off to report the day’s successes. No trace of the human vermin for several hundred yards in every direction, it will say; all of them clearly driven off in fear of its might, leaving the holy site clear for its superiors’ work to continue undisturbed. It feels entirely justified in bringing such news back, however flimsy the evidence - if it turns out to be wrong, nobody will be left alive to remember. Failure is only punishable if it can be proved, while success reported is taken as success achieved, with instant reward. It takes its news back to the temple, and the ritual song rises through the air once more.

* * *

Now, pan down fifty feet or so; zoom in. 

More. You’re almost there.

Turn up the volume …

… and you might just hear a different litany.

“- and if I ever find out which idiot packed the only billycan without a fucking handle I’m gonna make ‘em do a full kit inspection in the middle of a Vex incursion …”.

Maas flaps his hand and sucks at his burnt fingertips yet again.

“And when we get back to Sanctuary I’m calling a full gear audit, the absolute bastard works. You can all be as miserable as I am …”.

A subdued snigger ripples along the line of waiting guardians behind him; he finally subsides, still muttering, and moves in for another attempt, using the edge of his robe as an impromptu oven mitt so he can at least have some damn dinner.

“Right.”, he murmurs, raising a hand in signal as he finally gets a secure grip and hands the can off the fire on to the ground. “Come get it.”.

There’s no need to speak any louder in the tiny cavern, and every reason not to - they’ve found the perfect surveillance position, tucked in the back of a tiny cave overlooking the temple doorway, with a clear view of the rituals taking place there every few hours. He has no idea why Eris has instructed them to observe the wizards rather than wipe them out, but he’ll be damned before he’ll question her methods, not after everything she’s been through. She knows what she needs, and he has direct orders to make sure she gets it without delay.

The rest of the clan step up in turn to fill their mugs with soup, milling about in the tiny space and speaking in hushed whispers while they take a brief break. Dina is still out there on watch, and he steps cautiously toward the cave mouth until he can just see her position, sighted on the temple entrance. No movement visible right now inside the deep shadow of the doorway, which is reassuring. Maybe they’ve finally calmed down.

Someone comes up beside him, taking a careful sip from their mug.

“I have to say, I don’t think much of your sentry. Are they new?”.

The unwritten covert operations handbook would probably have a rule something like, 'Do NOT scream when somebody unexpectedly appears in the middle of your encampment while you are on surveillance detail.’. And technically it isn’t a scream; it’s more of an startled hiss as he jumps, slopping soup down his front, segueing smoothly into an outraged squeak of “When the hell did you get here?”.

Sully grins over the rim of their mug, blowing on the soup before taking another gulp. “Just now. You know, this is actually quite good; field rations have really improved since I last did duty roster.”.

He gapes at them, not quite believing his eyes. They finish their soup with a determined final swig, tipping the mug almost upside down to drain the last drop, then put it down and face him with a mock-offended frown. “What, no hug?”.

“Fuck it.”, he mutters, grabbing them with his free arm and squeezing them ruthlessly in a lopsided bear hug. “I didn't think you’d come.”.

They pull back a little and give him the ’seriously?’ face, and he chuckles. “I mean it … I mean I asked, but I didn’t know if you’d get the message, and I didn't know if you’d want to come back even if you did, and … oh, fuck it.”. He drags them in for another hug, dropping his cup so he can do the thing properly. Everything he’s struggling to say is more than adequately expressed by his arms tight around them and the slight tremor in his voice; they wrap their arms around his waist and return the pressure, laying their cheek flat against his chest and closing their eyes momentarily.

“Yeah, I missed you too, buddy.”, they murmur.

He lets out a quiet sound that’s half a sob, half a laugh.

“_Good_. I hope you were fucking miserable. Teach you to go away and leave us all unsupervised - everything went to hell, just look at the state of it.”.

As if to validate his statement, Dina scrambles in at that moment with a breathless warning.

“The wizards just went absolutely wild a minute ago - whoa now, why are you just standing there cuddling Sully instead of telling me they’re back?”.

She elbows Maas aside indignantly and wraps the titan in a forceful hug, placing a smacking kiss on their cheek and tousling their hair. “It’s about bloody time, honey.”.

Sully accepts both welcome and admonishment with a rueful grin and steps back to pick up their gear. “What’s the deal with the wizards? Do we need to do anything?”.

“Eris says not, but this is different to what they’ve been doing for the last couple of days. If I had to guess I’d say they’re starting a whole new ritual, a big one, summoning something special from the portal.”.

Maas nods distractedly. “I’ll let her know, see what she wants us to - “. He’s interrupted by an incoming message from Eris herself, in a sharp tone markedly different to her usual measured speech.

“Warlock - something is happening. Tell me what you see.”.

He obeys instantly, heading back to the entrance and reporting his observations in a continuous stream.

“Wow. Okay, we have a new ritual beginning; six wizards now, three summoning plates lighting up, portal frame about sixty feet high. Wizards look agitated. Ads look panicked, no pattern to their movements. Like they’re looking for something but haven’t been told what or in which direction.”.

A sharp intake of breath from the other end suggests that whatever this is, isn’t good news.

“That is expected. They are responding to a new threat, one that makes them very afraid. I would like to know what that is, but … I cannot see it. It is hidden from me.”.

Maas frowns. “There’s literally nothing else here but us. What could scare them that badly?”.

“Something changed, moments ago. Something else is with you. Can you see nothing?”.

“Nothing’s changed - except we gained one, is all. One of the clan who’s been away for a while. Want us to stop the ritual?”.

“Yes. Deal with whatever they summon, and then return to me immediately.”.

* * *

There are a handful of new faces in the clan, people who haven’t fought alongside the hero before; as Maas relays tactics and assigns positions it’s obvious they’re wondering why this anonymous, silent, uninspiring stranger is even included, much less playing a pivotal role. After one dubious side-eye too many Maas loses patience.

“Look, I don’t have time to explain to you new folks why we’re doing it this way; just trust me. You’ll get a demo soon enough.”. He turns to Sully. “Go get ‘em, reaper.”. They grin, pulling on their helmet, and head out of the cave without a word leaving the others to follow.

By the time they’re all in place Sully is nowhere to be seen, making the newbies even more doubtful. The wizards look to be at the peak of the summoning ritual, the portal already pulsing with energy and distorting with the vague shape of whatever horror they’re trying to call through it. Three teams fan out silently in the dark to flank the plates, while Maas leads Dina and Arno to the very edge of the circles of light to cover the roaming groups of thralls. With everyone in position he raises one hand in the ‘wait’ signal, then folds the two middle fingers to his palm as if he’s warding off the evil eye. This one is specifically for Sully, long-established clan code for ‘do your thing’.

<Maas is ready. Go!>

_rock and roll_

Sully is already in position, crouched on a rock spur high above the scene and sighting down the barrel of their scout rifle; they focus carefully on the left-most wizard and squeeze the trigger. The spellcaster’s shield audibly pops under the precision shot, sending a rebound wave of magical energy across the whole line and buffeting each wizard in turn, a gigantic Newton’s Cradle of thrashing solar blurs as they fight to hold their positions. They screech in fury, rising to anguished wails as a second shot explodes the first of them in a shower of flaming fragments. Then another, and another … their magical barriers renew as fast as they can cast the spell, but each time one more of their number goes down.

<Having fun?>

_oh, you have no idea_

_i win the teddy bear today_

<Okay … I don’t know what that means.>

_Pop_; another shield is down, its owner twisting away to an outline of embers and an agonised shriek.

_i’ll tell you later_

One more to go; Sully reloads and sights, taking out the final shield. They turn and grin at their silent ghost.

_all the fun of the fair_

They swap to their rocket launcher, loaded ready and lying beside them, and release three rounds in quick succession. Cluster bombs go off like fireworks, oddly festive, scattering the thralls in panic towards the dark at the edge of the ritual where the clan are waiting for them; meanwhile Sully leaps down to the clear space in front of the portal. A line of solar grenade fire spreads across behind them, licking at the toes of the acolytes closing in on their position, and the Hive screech and retreat. Then a bright spot flames on the ground in front of the lone titan, spawning a sword bearing knight.

A quiet voice comes over the comm, one of the new people. “Okay, I get it - they’re the meatshield?”.

“Nope, that’s you. Keep watching, blueberry - and keep this channel clear.”. Maas chuckles to himself in the dark. “God, I love watching them work.”.

There’s an outraged scoff from the newbie, quickly choked off to a disbelieving whine as Sully neatly ducks and slides, blowing the knight’s legs from under them with both barrels of their shotgun; as it goes down they finish it with a punch to the head, and roll smoothly to their feet now holding the sword.

The Hive scream in fury; the plates light up with summoning fire, calling up more knights. But a team is already waiting for each one, cutting them down before they have a chance to join the fight, and the plates are quickly cleared and suppressed while Maas leads his fireteam around the edge of the ritual, efficiently corralling and destroying the panicked thralls. It’s an elegant dance, a supporting chorus lunging and whirling in perfect sync as Sully ducks and dives and weaves in and out of the darkness with their stolen sword. And it’s working, it’s _working_ … there’s just one spellcaster left, weakened and erratic, frantically shifting this way and that trying to finish the ritual before it too is wiped out. It hasn’t yet noticed one glaring issue … that it’s been left alive when one more solar bullet from Sully’s rifle would have finished it.

The ritual completes; the closing words spoken, the final gesture sealing the link between worlds for Savathun's chosen emissary to step through. The wizard hovers for a moment in triumph, waiting for the humans’ champion to finally show fear. But all it sees is the sword edge spinning towards it, and the last thing it hears is, “NOW you can die.”. The sword spins out over the cliff edge and disappears, carrying the wizard’s dying shriek with it; Sully steps back and waits.

They’re unarmed now; sword gone, shotgun dropped somewhere under the crumbled wreckage of the sword bearer, rifle and rocket launcher left back up on the ledge. And now the portal bulges obscenely, the magical barrier extending out several feet as the creature on the other side takes its first step to the moon’s surface. They raise their barricade and lift a hand in signal to the clan; _wait_.

The portal booms; the horror steps through - an ogre, fully thirty feet high, raising its misshapen head to review the battlefield with a mournful howl. The sound reverberates across the arena, vibrating the fragile pumice underfoot, pebbles and dust jittering in a frenzied dance over the rock. Void energy, light and not-light twisted together, gathers in the ogre’s eye and spills towards the titan, a child’s toy in the path of a juggernaut. The barricade barely holds, just barely, gradually splintering under the weight of the bombardment.

The clan freeze, waiting, eyes fixed on that single hand held in the air …

It closes to a fist. _ATTACK_.

The ogre flinches, ducking and turning away as weapons of light saturate the air around it; solar and arc and void thronging the Hive champion from all sides as it tries desperately to twist away to safety, stepping back ponderously towards the portal and screaming defiance. Sully’s barricade crumbles away at last and they step forward, holding a fiery maul in both hands and slamming it to the ground, a rail of flames shooting along the rock and blazing around the ogre’s feet. One more step and it’ll be back through the barrier, back where it came from, back to safety - but it wavers; the light is dying down, the puny figure in front of it perfectly placed for a killing blow. Its mission is to end the threat, to destroy whichever creature here has interrupted the flow of dark power to the temple. It will start with this one, and feed on its stolen light to deal with the others.

It raises both arms and brings them down heavily on the ground; the shockwave flings Sully backward, slamming them into a rock pillar ten feet away and dropping them to the ground in a heap. They lie still, much too still, crumpled like a discarded doll …

Maas yells, “Oh _hell_ no”, and races forward to cover them; but the ogre is faster, unbelievably fast for something so big and clumsy, howling in obscene triumph as it stands over the unmoving guardian and raises its fists to finish the job.


	33. On The Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the ongoing battle against the darkness, some compromises will have to be made. And when the line between light and dark is so very thin - how do you know when you've stepped over it?

Polished black stone stretches out far in front of them, a walkway flanked at regular intervals by massive pillars and disappearing off into the distance. Pinpoints of red light cluster like watching eyes; whatever they’re attached to lost in the gloom high above. Their armoured foot _clacks_ on the smooth surface as they shift their weight, and the sound falls away with no echo, deadened somehow. By reflex they check themselves over; no injuries - armour intact - weapons all there - ghost is -

_ghost is missing no no no_

\- they hold their palm flat out in the gesture that usually summons the little drone, but the fitful spark that appears is in no state to contribute anything right now. It flickers and blurs, a pale diamond seen through a waterfall, pulsing a plaintive static burst at irregular intervals.

"We did not bring your companion. We wished to speak to you alone.".

They close their hand again and stare ahead, carefully blank, before turning to face the voice in the dark.

_do you mind if we don’t do this right now? i was kind of in the middle of something_

“We saw. You were in the middle of dying your final death.”.

They shrug; _if you say so_

"You will always fail, only using half of your power. Your reliance on the light makes you weak.".

Unseen under the helm, they roll their eyes briefly.

_get to the point_

_my friends are waiting for me_

"So impatient? Our point is .., you are perfectly balanced. We can show you how to take advantage of that.".

* * *

Maas skids to a halt behind the ogre, frantically slotting fresh shells into his shotgun and taking aim; it has to be nearly dead now, and good old-fashioned lead poisoning should finish the job. Unbelievably he can see Sully moving, legs spasming with the effort of turning over and straightening themselves out.

“Thought you were dead!”, he screams cheerfully, emptying both barrels into the ogre’s back. It swings furiously to face him and howls defiance, forgetting the half-broken enemy at its feet. Maas gropes for more shells at his belt and reloads, dancing back to draw the creature away, and grins evilly as Sully staggers to their feet and raises a clenched fist. _There we go._ _C’mon reaper, finish this._

He's not disappointed; there’s the unmistakeable sound of a melee connecting and the ogre halts mid-step, frozen, silent - and disintegrates as softly as a dandelion clock, motes floating outwards in every direction before settling to the ground. Sully slowly comes into view through the floating debris, clutching a handful of shadows.

_i got better_, they sign; then they sit carefully back down, shaking the dark remnants off their fingertips and ripping off their helm. For a split second they make aggressively bland eye contact with one of the doubting newbies before raising an eyebrow at Maas and turning aside to spit a mouthful of bloodied saliva and broken teeth on the ground beside them. Faint wisps of dark still curl around them, clustering around their head as if whispering secrets; they swat them away to nothing, leaning back on the rock pillar and staring up at Earth hanging in the lunar sky.

A plaintive buzzing from their backpack jolts them back to the here and now; they lean forward to let their ghost emerge and smile faintly as it comes around in front of them.

_thought i’d lost you_

They lean back again and let the healing light take care of their injuries, listening with fond resignation while the little drone monologues the catalogue of damage spliced with grumbling admonishments.

<That's seven broken ribs and a punctured lung - I swear you have a death wish - shattered jaw - I mean, honestly, why are you like this? - right arm is broken - that ogre could have finished you off permanently, you know - your spleen is a write-off - I don’t know what you’d do without me … >

They raise a hand and touch a gentle fingertip to one point of the ghost’s shell, interrupting the flow.

_i don’t know what i’d do without you either_

_let’s not find out_

The ghost subsides with a final grumble and carries on with the healing process. Sully raises the newly healed arm and slides off their gauntlet, examining the hand and flexing their fingers experimentally.

_on the bright side, I think i know how to funnel off the excess darkness now_

_we need to go and see the wizard_

<I'm sorry, we what?>

_eris_

_we need to go and talk to eris_

<Eris isn’t a wizard, she’s a Guardian … uh, I mean, she used to be … oh.>

_yep_

* * *

Wherever Guardians establish a beachhead, hopeful commerce soon follows; bare weeks into the campaign to retake the moon the utilitarian landing site at Sanctuary has been transformed into a sprawl of tents and booths offering hot baths, cold beer, spiced ramen and just about everything else a body could want after a gruelling shift dealing with the Hive. The clan disperses thankfully in search of whatever will bring them comfort right now, the new members still whispering amongst themselves about the fight at the portal, while Maas heads straight to report to Eris. His fireteam stick with him, postponing their own relaxation until he's able to join in, and he leads them up to the spot where the former Guardian is usually to be found. The area is deserted though - he frowns and checks the corner off to the right where her small portal is active, sickly green and black swirling together in the oval frame. 

"I guess she's gone to the pyramid. Damn it, I hate going through that thing. Stinks of sorcery.".

Dina pats him on the back comfortingly.

"We'll come with you; get this done, and then I'll buy you a beer.".

_he's never buying his own beer again as long as he lives_, Sully signs. _i owe him. get in line_.

They've gone characteristically silent again, with so many unfamiliar people crowding around, but there's the familiar cheeky gleam as they look up at the warlock and lean briefly against his arm with a worshipful stare. He chuckles and squares his shoulders as they step up to the portal together. "You'd do the same for me, right?".

As expected, they find Eris standing alone on the broad balcony overlooking the pyramid ship, gripping the edge of her makeshift altar and staring down at the objects scattered there.

"You have done well, warlock. I felt the dismay of the Hive as their champion fell.". 

She looks up suddenly, taking a deep breath. "And now I think I know what it is that they fear. _Who_ it is.". As she turns to face them her stolen Hive eyes dim slightly, and her gaze rests on Sully. "You. You carry the darkness with you.".

Maas takes an uncertain step forward, hands held out placatingly. "This is Sully. They're clan. Are we gonna have a problem here?".

"No. The Hive fears them, and so must I - until I understand what they are.".

"Just a Guardian.", Sully's ghost supplies. 

"No. You are more. You have used the power of the darkness today. I need to know how. And why.".

* * *

Drifter hasn't been sleeping well, alone in the pillow fort. There's an empty space where she’s supposed to be, smooth cold fabric under his hand instead of warm skin, silence instead of her steady breathing and the occasional sleepy murmur when she turns over and snuggles in to him. He must be getting soft, he supposes, to be feeling her absence so keenly. What’s worse, the gap where she should be is a silent reproach, entirely his own doing, since he decided he had more pressing business to take care of than following her to the moon while she caught up with her other life and her other friends. He’s not jealous, he tells himself; and he’s not worried necessarily, and he’s not lonely. He’s just … just not _right_ somehow.

Anyway, it shouldn't be more than a week or so before she's back, and he has more than enough to keep him busy in the meantime. For the rookie’s sake he makes an effort to keep his irritation in check, even breaking out the good whisky of an evening and playing cards for an hour or two. It’s a solid partnership, one of the few good things to come out of the current situation, and it’s not the kid’s fault he’s out of sorts. One such evening they’ve just finished off one last hand before deciding to call it a night; Jacob heads, yawning, for the transmat, and Drifter gathers up the scattered cards and drains his glass. A dozen different things swirl through his mind, from Gambit prep to last week’s trades to tomorrow’s breakfast. _Almost out of coffee, better get some more_ … 

As he turns to stow the cards away there’s a sudden sense of nothingness; of everything stopping, waiting, like the universe holding its breath. Faint blue/black/purple blotches creep into the edges of his vision, and the glass in his hand seems suddenly unreal, like his fingers could pass through it. His hand spasms as he tries to keep hold of it, twisting and losing his grip; it falls to the floor in an instant / in slow motion / floating forever, and his eyes widen in panic. _What the fuck?_

A silent shockwave passes through him, leaving everything else untouched but pushing him back a step, winded and heaving as if an invisible hand had punched him. He could swear his hand passes through the console as he staggers back; he can see stars through the wall, through the deck, he’s standing on nothing, nothing is real, _he’s_ not real, _oh fuck no_ … he grasps for certainty, ignoring the messages flooding his senses and concentrating on just _existing_ as hard as he can - 

\- the soles of his feet make jarring contact with the floor they never left, the glass smashes on the deck, his hand smacks painfully against the edge of the console sending the cards he's holding into the air in a perfect arc. He staggers against the wall and steadies himself, wild-eyed. _What the hell was that?_

His gaze goes briefly toward the back of the ship, to the Haul, but he shakes his head after a second. It’s not the Nine; their visitations always return him annoyed but untouched, like being driven round the block for a ‘friendly' warning and dropped back off at the corner. This … this was more like being kicked downstairs. Something’s up.

He cocks his gun and does a sweep of the ship, patiently checking every section with his ghost silently trailing him and providing a scrolling feed of status reports. Nothing is damaged, nothing is missing, nothing so much as an inch out of place, and none of his traps indicate any kind of incursion - not even the special ones rigged from Scorn tech that go off when there’s a Taken on the loose. Thoughtfully he holsters his weapon again and returns to the bridge, mulling over what it might mean. There’s been too much paracausal bullshit floating around lately for him to discount what just happened as a figment of his imagination; something’s definitely going on … just not right here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sigh* post in haste, edit typos at leisure ...


	34. Good Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sully's encounter with the Darkness is making the Vanguard nervous, but this is far from the first time they've followed their own path and turned up triumphant. Ikora doesn't believe in fairytale happy endings - can she believe in her old friend?

The tension on the balcony is palpable; the guardians are already on edge, what with Eris’s clear distress and the accusations she’s flinging at Sully, and the atmosphere down here in the Hellmouth is never healthy to begin with. A sickly green tinge permeates everything, striking up from the pit below; and the air is thick with magic - sour, metallic, edged with potential, like the smell of the earth after a lightning strike.

Eris paces in a tight circle, boots scuffing the dust, making Maas go over his report of the battle again and again. She demands more detail in each retelling, anxiously seizing on his choice of words as he stumbles and picking them apart for hidden meaning. Did he say ‘shadow’ when he meant ‘darkness’? Which is it? Was Sully dead, or not? Then why say ‘wiped out’ rather than ’stunned'? She seems convinced there's some clue in there somewhere - deliberately suppressed maybe - that will lead her to the answer she seeks. The question at hand, of course, is what has happened to Sully. What are they now? A simple guardian, seduced by hubris maybe, misguided … or irretrievably lost, corrupted by the Darkness?

A stranger might assume the titan was completely detached from the fuss they’ve caused; they relax against the wall by Eris’s altar, apparently engrossed in the objects scattered on the thick cloth. Around the edge, a handful of scattered steel rings; a thick leatherbound book, some carved stone beads, and several small knives, arrowhead blades winking in the eerie light seeping up from the chasm a few yards away. Metal and stone charms are spread out in the centre, apparently random, but Sully hasn’t missed that Eris was touching each in turn as they arrived, careful not to disturb them from where they’d fallen as she cast them. _Divination_. That’s what this table is set up for, with the relics from Eris’s former fireteam kept close to provide balance, an anchor back to the friends and the life she lost down there in the Hellmouth.

_Okay, that's enough_. Their eyes narrow as they surreptitiously monitor Maas’s body language - he’s perilously close to losing his temper now, rising emotional strain piled on top of post-battle fatigue. They act deliberately to divert Eris’s hostility for a moment, sliding off a gauntlet to place a tentative fingertip on one of the charms. Eris spins instantly to face them.

“Do not touch those!”.

They lift their hand away and stand back, satisfied with the manoeuvre. Eris glances at Maas, stalled in the middle of yet another retelling, and stalks over the altar. “It makes no sense.”, she whispers to herself, distractedly scanning the charms. "The pattern makes no sense!”.

Sully signs to Maas urgently, and he walks over slowly, translating as he goes.

“Sully says if you want answers you are badgering the wrong person.”. A pause while they continue and he watches their hands carefully; “Okay, I’m not saying that. Or that. Be nice, reaper … uh … okay, they're saying Dina and I should, um, get lost and get the beers in, and apparently Ikora is on the way.”.

Dina gratefully heads for the portal without another word, punching Sully's shoulder affectionately, and Maas lingers just long enough for one final translation. “Oh, right - they say you should cast the pattern again, but this time include this … what? Oh.”.

Sully gestures with a magician’s flourish and opens their hand to reveal a small pale-green stone disc. _The Scout._

* * *

Recasting the divination pattern with the game counter gives Eris something new to focus on; she stares at the new array in silence for some time while Sully watches her, leaning easily against the wall again and waiting patiently for the former hunter to finish her inspection. At last she shakes her head and looks up.

“The pattern is complete … but still it makes no sense. This cannot be.”.

“What cannot be?”. Ikora rounds the corner, perfectly timed, and glances with concern between Eris and the silent titan. “What have you seen?”.

Eris gestures curtly. “Your … _hero_ … has made contact with the Darkness. Used its power. And now they are the centre of the pattern, and they will tell me _nothing_.”.

She’s almost spitting with frustration, and Ikora’s eyebrows raise a fraction. She’s more than familiar with the impact Sully’s silence has on people who haven’t worked with them before, and that’s before anyone even tries giving them orders. She makes a swift decision, coming alongside the titan and making meaningful eye contact.

“If I ask you this, it’s because I have good reason … will you share your true voice with Eris? She needs to hear you.”.

Her eyes signal desperate hope, and Sully hesitates before answering in a low murmur.

“Only because you ask. Because it’s _you_. But - be sure she knows what you’re asking.”.

Ikora nods thanks and turns to Eris.

“They will speak to you now. You should know that this is very unusual; it is a sign of trust, and a willingness to develop a relationship, if Sully speaks aloud. They almost never do, except to close friends. And now you have that information, I trust you will not misuse it.”.

Eris is stunned; partly by the sound of the guardian’s voice at last, the silvery timbre so incongruous coming from the apparently masculine figure, and partly by the significance Ikora has imbued it with. She looks from one to the other and feels suddenly outnumbered … these two clearly share something she’s not part of, voice or no voice. She circles again briefly, searching for the words to describe the wrongness she can feel crawling around them. Her hands clench at her sides as she halts and faces the guardian again; “You cannot wield the power of the Darkness; you _must_ not. It can only bring trouble.”.

Sully shrugs; at Ikora’s frown their impish grin threatens to emerge. “What? It wasn’t a question, it doesn’t need an answer.”.

Whatever Ikora’s response would have been , it’s forestalled by Eris pushing in front of her, taut with anxiety. “The Darkness is using you!”.

Sully’s levity fades instantly and they stand up straight, a flash of anger in their eyes.

“And? The Traveller has been using me for years, ever since it dragged me from my grave.”.

Eris steps back, aghast. “That is not the same! It’s -“.

Sully cuts her off with a savage gesture. “Oh, it’s the same. It is _exactly_ the same. They are two sides of the same coin, artificially advancing their chosen civilisations to settle an argument And if you think the Traveller is somehow morally superior, then you can’t have been paying attention.".

Even Ikora is shocked at that. “Is that what you believe?”.

“It’s what I know. The Traveller picks us up when we’re useful, and it will put us down when it’s done; the Eliksni can testify to that. At least the Darkness asks for consent first.”.

In the horrified silence that follows, Eris turns away abruptly and stares out at the pyramid ship.

“I cannot accept this. I cannot. And even if I could, I would still counsel against using the power of the dark in this way. It cannot be controlled - we know too little about it.”.

Sully joins her, staring in turn at the sleek sides of the pyramid. With their point made they revert back to their usual bland self.

“Perhaps you’re right; it’s a huge risk. But I’ll tell you what - before you get to make that call, there’s something you need to do. Several things.”.

Eris looks a question at them, unaccountably nervous despite the apparent capitulation. Sully smiles faintly.

“It’s quite simple. Give back your Hive eyes. Put down your magic rock or bone or whatever it is. Roll up your altar. _Then_ I will allow you to lecture me about how wrong it is, to use the dark against the dark.”.

Ikora raises a hand in protest, and Sully rounds on her in turn. “And what about void light, my friend? Wasn’t there a huge fuss once upon a time about making use of it, given its origins?”.

The warlock’s prepared counterargument dies on her lips, and she groans in frustration. “I changed my mind. Perhaps you should be silent again.”.

Sully’s raucous laugh rings out across the balcony. “I’m sorry. But you know I’m right. Yes?”.

A reluctant “Yes.”, is the whispered response. Then, louder, “Yes. You’re right. It is by far your most annoying habit.”.

Sully chuckles ruefully. “I’ll have to add that to my list of testimonials.”.

They walk back to the warlock, standing in front of her and holding her gaze confidently.

“You asked me to come here and see what needed to be done; well, this is what I found. I’m asking you to trust me - one more time. I promise you, I can make good use of whatever this is … besides, I’m not sure we can win without it.”.

* * *

Eris stands in silence for such a long time after the titan departs that Ikora begins to worry. This can't have been easy for the woman, traumatised as she is by the loss of her light, to hear Sully talk about the Traveller's gift with such scorn. Eventually she sighs, turning way from the balcony.

"You have such faith in this hero of yours.".

Ikora spreads her hands helplessly. "I do. They have never disappointed me.".

"You don't fear they've been corrupted?".

"Not at all.".

"But the way they spoke of the Traveller - of the light - ".

Ikora moves in front of Eris, hands held out in reassurance. "I can assure you, the Sully you just spoke to is the Sully I know. Honest, above all. Uncompromising. And ... _angry_.".


	35. Fourth Time's The Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maas and Sully set out for some simple patrols, and end up with a disturbing discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for bereavement, depression and suicide ideation in this chapter.

**MEETINGS AND PARTINGS**

_That first meeting isn’t even a meeting; the boy hoists himself up into the rafters of the barn and settles in the spot he was heading for himself, wrapping a blanket over his shoulders against the cold and settling back against a beam with a cool stare in his direction. Maas swears silently and goes to find a different place to sleep. He dreams again, the bad one, the one where he has to watch Shami being torn apart by Cabal hounds as she screams at him, 'just fucking run, idiot'. He wakes and blinks back tears, throat aching with the effort of not breaking down._

_The second meeting is him being shoved out of the way as the boy flings himself through the doorway, bruised and bloodied from a foray beyond the confines of the farm. He narrowly escapes being flattened a second later by the EDZ militia commander, raging in after him white-lipped with fury and tearing him off a strip for taking unnecessary risks. He makes his escape, glad it’s not him being yelled at … although part of him acknowledges some human contact might be nice. Nobody here has spoken to him yet in the three weeks since he took refuge, kept at bay by his visible difference, the heavy tattoos covering his face and neck. The people he knew who looked beyond the ink, who accepted him wholesale, are all dead._

_The third time he sees the boy is the first time they actually interact. It’s also the first time he realises he’s a guardian, not just some adolescent EDZ scout - based on what Hawthorne is yelling at him this time, yet another exasperated monologue ending in “Did you forget you can die now? Just like us normal people?”. He looks with fresh eyes, seeing past the borrowed militia jacket and his preconceptions. He should have figured, Awoken don’t usually end up as scouts outside the city. And as nondescript and dim as this one is, they’re definitely Awoken now he looks more closely. __The young man catches him staring, and his hands flutter briefly in front of him. Maas blinks as he translates the sign language; ‘close your mouth, you look simple.’. He can’t stop himself - he snorts with laughter and nods acknowledgment, turning away and back to his own concerns. _ _Behind his back the strange guardian watches him depart, a gleam of a smile in their eye._

_The fourth meeting is the real beginning._

_He's found a new sleep spot, down in the basement under the ruined farmhouse, somewhere nobody will bother him. As if, his inner voice sneered when he rationalised the choice to himself, who’s shown any signs of wanting to bother you? Without your light you’re just another useless mouth to feed. He ignores the voice. He can be alone down here by choice, rather than by other people’s, and that way he can feel like maybe he’s in control of something._

_Trapped in the dream again, with the dogs coming after him and Shami's screams still echoing around the ravine, he runs and runs and runs until there’s no more ground to run on. He pulls up at the cliff edge and stares up at the sky for the falcon he knows is supposed to be there to lead him to safety - but the sky is empty, and safety is a lie, and everything he ever was is gone. Might as well end it now … he closes his eyes and prepares to step out into nothing._

_Out of nowhere a hand sends him sprawling back on the rock ledge - no, the stone flags; he's in the basement, and the pale blur in front of him resolves into the mysterious Awoken guardian, gripping his shoulder to hold him steady and looking into his eyes with concern. He doesn’t pry, doesn’t waste time asking what the problem is, he just nods. And then he speaks for the first time, and that’s the last time Maas ever thinks of them strictly as ‘he’._

_“You have to grieve. If you don’t you'll break.”._

_Caught between astonishment at the silvery voice and the apparently effortless reading of his mental state, he splutters a weak denial. It’s useless; they smile a twisted smile and sit down in front of him, pulling a bottle of whisky from their pack._

_“Hush. Drink. Drink until you cry, cry until you sleep, and sleep until you wake. I’ll stand watch.”._

_Refusal doesn't seem to be an option, and besides - someone is finally talking to him. He braces, expecting the first gulp of liquor to burn on the way down, but it goes down as smooth as honey, liquid sunshine warming his throat and chest. The second mouthful tastes even better, and the third, and the several after that ... and when the tears begin his silver friend is true to their word, sitting with him and letting him cry it out until he finally collapses into exhausted, blessedly dreamless sleep._

* * *

“You’re spoiling the end of the story, asshole!”.

Fifteen guardians in a bar, crammed around a table designed for six ...

“Thanks, over here, the ale is for me, whisky over there -“.

… several rounds in, and no fights - yet ...

“Oh come on, you’ve told us this one like a thousand times.”.

… the noise level creeps up, and up, and up until even the music can’t drown them out ...

“Just leave the bottle, thanks love.”.

… the bathhouse girls have long since given up trying to join the party; clearly none of the clan are looking for company tonight ...

“Yeah, everybody already knows how it ends, idiot. You take down a wizard single handed, the Speaker wants to marry you, blah blah blah.”.

… one glassy-eyed warlock at the end of the table, wondering why the room is spinning ...

“Crota’s balls, who ordered the fruity girly drink? That’s a fining offence …”.

… one silver titan signing across the table,_ maybe the blueberry’s had enough for tonight_ …

Dina deftly rescues her glass as the warlock beside her slumps forward and rests her head on her arms. Sully’s right, the newest clan initiate is definitely flagging; between them they get the newbie to her feet and balanced enough to be walked to her bed, stepping out into the dusty avenue. Just in time too - at that moment the yelling begins, then glass breaking and what could well be the table being shoved over. They exchange glances and pick up the pace, steering the drooping warlock between them resolutely away from the fight and off to the comfort of her bedroll.

* * *

Lunar dawn finds the clan heaped on the floor of their makeshift quarters in their habitual puppy pile, dead to the world. Interlaced hands and complex multi-way cuddles here and there hint at more intimate links between individuals, but the affection shared across the group as a whole is unmistakeable even in deep sleep. Last night’s drunken scuffles notwithstanding, the whole drowsy tableau signals safety, belonging, trust.

First to surface to consciousness is Maas; finding himself more or less trapped between Sully lying on his left arm and Dina sprawled across his chest, he happily resigns himself to not moving until they’re ready to, and wriggles his right arm free to drape over the prone hunter. She growls something, muffled in the folds of his robes, and he stifles a laugh - nope, definitely not ready to wake up yet. He tightens his arm around her and gently strokes her shoulder with his thumb, soothing her back to sleep. No rush. _Sleep 'til you wake_. After yesterday’s epic battle he’ll be damned if he'll drag them all out for active duty again so soon, and if anyone has different ideas they can take it up with him - if they can get the hatch to open against the mass of sleeping guardians blocking it, that is.

When they finally emerge from the container his executive decision proves correct, backed up by Command’s apparent decision to take them all off the roster for the next couple of days. However Sully is summoned to confer with Eris again in the middle of the morning, and he waves off their protests to pull on his boots and accompany them. They managed to calm things down somehow yesterday, but if it’s likely to get as intense as it did before he’s determined not to let them face it alone.

He’d expected resistance from Eris, if not outright hostility, but she’s oddly pleased when he appears through the portal behind Sully; his confusion is obvious, and all the more so when she stops in front of him and almost smiles.

“I did not expect you, but since you are here I have a task for you. Accompany your friend on patrols, and tell me what you discover.”.

"Oh, come on!”, he protests. “I think I’ve run enough patrols on the moon by now to -“.

Eris cuts him off with a sharp wave of her hand. “Perhaps, but they have not. And I did not say there was anything new to discover about the moon itself.”. He halts, mouth open to complain again, but stays silent; she nods in satisfaction. “And promise me you will report faithfully what you see.”.

He finds his voice at that, demanding “Don’t I always?”.

“Always.", she confirms. "But forgive me if I question your ability to be objective where your friend is concerned. You remain blind to the danger they pose.”.

There’s no honest way to deny that, but he huffs indignantly while he tries to think of one. Looking to Sully for support is no help; he reluctantly grins at their expression of unholy innocence, hands demurely folded in front of them and eyes cast up to the ceiling. He’s defeated and he knows it.

“Yeah, you’re probably right - we have way too much history. Okay … I promise. I’ll even have my ghost record for you. How’s that?”.

She doesn’t answer, but the grave nod she gives him as she turns away is almost a bow, solemn as a priest's benediction.

* * *

Archer's Line is uncharacteristically clear of hostiles for the time of day; looks like whoever’s rostered for duty here today has been through and done a sweep already. Sully stops beside a tattered Fallen banner and stares around blankly.

“Hm. No patrol beacons here. Where next?”.

For a moment he thinks they’re joking; the phantom a few feet away is screaming in desperation, over and over again, _There are too many of them!_, he can hardly hear himself think over the racket. But Sully doesn't react to it in any way.

“You don’t hear it?”.

They shrug. “All I hear is you. And someone’s sparrow over there has a leaky gasket, needs retuning. It’s really annoying, actually.”.

He walks over to the phantom and points. “There’s a phantom right here, screaming for help. That’s what we’ve been responding to, running patrols. You really don’t see it?”.

“Ah.”. They come over and examine the spot, passing their hand over the ground. “I don’t see a phantom, and I don’t hear a voice. What I see is …”, they scuff the lunar dust with their gloved hand, uncovering something, “a broken gauntlet and two bones from a human arm, all with Hive runes carved into them.”.

Abruptly the phantom blinks out of existence, like a holovid being switched off. They frown intently at the remains and then back at him. “This phantom … how does it make you feel?”.

It’s the oddest question, but he knows better than to question Sully on the subject of feelings by now. “Um … anxious. Responsible, somehow … guilty, ashamed for not having been here to help when they needed it. And determined to make it right.”.

“Wow.”. Their mouth twists in a grimace, looking back at the bones. “That’s one powerful spell, for two little runes.”.

“Wait a minute - you’re telling me that all these phantoms are just Hive spells put here to annoy us?”.

“Sort of. If I had to guess I’d say to keep you all occupied and anxious, rather than to annoy you.”.

That makes some twisted sort of sense, and he sighs heavily. “Of course. Is this what Eris meant? Something to discover?”. He knows he must be missing something, something important, and he kicks the rock beside him absently while his brain catches up. “Hold up … you don’t see them, you don’t hear them, you just see what's really there. Why? Why don’t they affect you”.

They smile crookedly. “I’m 'special', remember? Immune to shame … being emotionally broken has its advantages, sometimes. These runes are designed to invoke crippling feelings of shame or guilt.”. They wave a hand at the empty air beside his head. “Oh, and you forgot to record for Eris.”.

He mutters something unprintable and calls up his ghost. “Alright. Fine. Let's go find another one. Up there is a likely spot.”. He gestures at the derelict lab up on the rise; they head up the deserted avenue together, bickering good-naturedly as they go.

* * *

Back at the Tower, Drifter’s black mood is the talk of the below-stairs Tower population - the current theory is he must have been crossed in some business deal or other, big time, to the point where he’s losing sleep over it. Fidgety at rest and manic in motion, hair-trigger irritable with his crew, he seems to be permanently on the edge of some kind of outburst. He’s still running Gambit, still working the basement line, but there are no in-jokes any more, no magic tricks, no teasing. No smiles.

It’s hardly surprising; the truth is, not only has he not slept in either of his beds in several days, he hasn’t slept for more than an hour or two altogether since that disturbing late-night ripple in reality. His ghost is doing its best to keep him functional, surreptitiously trickling healing light to him at just enough of a rate to prevent him from collapsing, but deep sleep has other purposes besides physical repair. Right now his brain is effectively running on fumes, circling endless loops of what-ifs and imagined scenarios, unable to shut down and make sense of each day’s inputs over the course of a proper night’s sleep. If he turns his head too fast there are shadows skittering across the room, whispering on the edge of hearing as they gather in the corners. 

He’s heading for a crash and he knows it. But he can’t rest. Bad times are coming, he tells himself, if not already here; they’re in the last days now. And he’s not ready. He doesn’t _feel_ ready - he hasn’t done enough, he needs Sully back, he needs more motes, he needs more guns, more supplies … he's already doubled the number of daily fixtures, matches running back to back for as long as there’s light enough to shoot by, called in every favour he can and stockpiled every resource he can think of. He’s gone way beyond what he’d originally planned to have in store, and yet … it’s not enough. He can feel it.

The Darkness is here.


	36. A Leap In The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drifter's preparations are coming to a head, with just one crucial ingredient missing. If you'd have told him months ago that he'd put everything on hold to wait for one silver guardian, he'd have laughed in your face. But now - well, he just has to hope she'll make it back before the end of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bungo plz, hurry up and show us how the Darkness powers work ... Sully needs to know!
> 
> For the guilt/shame theory, I have to thank some smart people on Tumblr who expanded on the concept that the phantoms are manifestations of our guardians' urge to protect humanity, and the guilt they feel when they're confronted with evidence of past failure, even if they couldn't possibly have made a difference. It got me thinking, and this story thread is the result.

“So, yeah, you weren’t wrong about new things to learn. It turns out Sully doesn't see or hear the phantoms at all. Weird.”. Maas’s recorded voice rings out across the balcony as Eris watches the playback in thoughtful silence. "But they do see what's causing them. We’re going to check a few more and see if there’s anything different about any of them. Um, and we’ll bring you back samples of the runes. Sully thinks you ought to take a look at them.”.

Eris holds up a hand to pause the playback and stares at the frozen tableau; as the silence on the balcony stretches out Maas begins to fidget, his hand coming to rest on his belt and absently toggling the magnetic buckle on his ammo pouch. He hastily drops both hands to his sides before addressing Eris.

“Is that okay? I mean, is that what you were expecting?”.

He’s not sure she’s even listening, but she slowly turns back and holds his gaze with a challenge in her eyes.

“Your friend ... continues to confound my expectations.”.

He has no answer to that. Clearly she’s leading somewhere with that comment, and his immediate impulse is to stop talking to protect his clanmate until he finds out what it is. Eris doesn’t miss the subtle tightening of his lips, nor his stillness as he braces against what’s coming, and it almost makes her smile - _almost_, and against her every instinct - to see him so ready to defend his friend no matter what. So naive about the implications, if he should be wrong. It has its own charm, that blind trust, and reassures her that at least this one is uncorrupted. But his unquestioning defence of Sully could still present a problem.

“They did not accompany you to report to me. Why?”.

That, he can answer. “Two reasons. One, they promised to report directly to Ikora, and they have other business to take care off at the Tower. Two …”, he resolutely moves his restless hand away from his belt yet again, “they know you’ll analyse and second-guess every word they say and ask me to confirm it, so we figured we’d cut out the middle man.”.

Now she has to smile; they’re not wrong. Fortunately she’s facing away from him and manages to suppress her grim amusement, arranging her expression into something appropriately stern before she turns back. _May the Traveller send me such friends when I need them_, is her private reflection. Out loud she says, “You trust them without question, it seems.”.

Speaking for herself, she knows she can’t trust so blindly - her own traumas, her experience with Toland’s betrayal in particular, have made her appropriately wary. And thinking of Toland's descent into madness brings her mind sharply back to a more present fear.

“You said you had samples of the runes. Show me.”.

Maas complies, producing a fragment of gauntlet for Eris to inspect, and she seizes it from him urgently. It’s overwhelmingly reminiscent of a mother snatching a child’s hand away from danger; he’s not sure whether it’s him that's the child in that scenario, or the artefact, but he wisely keeps quiet and stands at a respectful distance while she examines the marks on the battered steel plate. There are only two runes, each around half an inch high and scored lightly into the metal with some thin sharp object, neat and precise. Whoever and whatever did this, it was done with care and skill. The first is easily recognisable - The Pathway, scholars named it long ago, representing doors, portals, roads … and lies. The archives are littered with scholarly disagreements over which of these was correct; at some point an uncredited genius proposed the translation ‘Go where I lead you’ and it stuck.

The second rune is far more uncommon, but she recognises it after a moment's consideration as The Agent. The sense of this one varies according to context, but grudging consensus defined it eventually as ‘You are the cause’ or, sometimes, ‘You are the reason'. She'd need to study the precise context to be sure, but Sully’s comments on the recording align nicely with her own theory - the two runes in combination create guilt and shame in guardians who wish they could have done more; and possibly they have the opposite effect on the Hive and the other hostile races roaming the scene of humanity's great defeat, giving them a sense of pride and invincibility. Fascinating, but also concerning.

“These are innocuous enough, by themselves.”, she finally concludes with a sigh of relief. “Hive runes come in many forms, but they all have a presence spanning two worlds. They call from the other dimension what they represent in this one. I think you know some of this already.”.

Maas nods uncertainly, hoping there isn't going to be any kind of test later. She continues; “These runes are of the lesser sort, calling memories or emotions rather than physical damage. They have presence, but they are not immediately lethal. Strange … the Hive are not usually this subtle. I sense Savathun’s hand in this, and something more. Something with more intimate knowledge of human weakness.”.

She tails off, looking across the cavern with a thousand-yard stare. Maas waits patiently for her to expand on her thoughts, but that’s already more information from her than he’s used to getting. Some part of him wishes she’d keep talking, it almost seems like she’s glad to have someone to instruct and to listen to her think aloud - his orders were clear, "Whatever she needs.", Ikora said to him, and if what she needs right now is a good listener he’s more than happy to serve.

But she’s done. Pacing back to her altar she starts casting a new pattern - one, two, three times in quick succession. Sully’s token, a pale dot against the other charms and the dark cloth, falls unerringly into the centre every single time; he won’t pretend he knows what it means, and he’s afraid to ask. He slips away, leaving her to her analysis.

* * *

_i’m going to need your help with all of this_

<I’m sorry, with what? Oh, you mean the Darkness? Sorry, enabling evil overlords is a little outside my remit.>

_you suck at sarcasm_

<Well, I learned it from my guardian>

_evidently not, or you’d be better at it_

_anyway_

_please help me manage this_

<How can you even think that’s possible? And even if it were, what do you expect me to do? I’m literally made of light, I can’t work with Darkness. The two don’t mix.>

_ahem_

<Oh, you know what I mean! - the Awoken are different. I don’t have a distributary handy, or a thousand years to experiment.>

_i had neither of those things when i became awoken_

<Yes, well, you’re a special case.>

_that’s hardly news_

_help me, sparky - you’re my only hope_

<Would you stop calling - why are you grinning? Is that a reference?>

_never mind_

_we have to get this right_

_people are counting on us_

* * *

A faint spark jumps briefly in the dim corner, followed by a muffled curse and a second attempt. And a third. Then a fourth, a fifth … and finally the damn burner ignites and Drifter stands back, nudging the coffee pot over to sit square on the half-hearted flame from the ancient camp stove. If he didn’t expect the world to end any day now he’d maybe take the time to put in a proper heating element down here - but there’s no point putting any further work into the basement. As it is he’ll have to abandon a lot of tech when he goes, and if he’s lucky he won’t have to leave any of his people behind. He doesn’t expect to be lucky, though. Not everyone’s going to make it.

On top of everything there’s still no word from Sully. Mostly that’s by design, paranoid as he’s been about their communications being monitored, but now he’s beginning to wish he’d set up a code of some kind to recall her to his side, or for her to alert him to anything he needed to know. Ah well - no point fretting about it now. Everything else is in place, all fixtures for the foreseeable future on either Nessus or Titan with the aim of being legitimately as far from the Tower and the city as he can get without actually leaving the system, ready to run. Once she’s back on board he'll abandon Sol, Earth and the Vanguard wholesale the second trouble strikes, taking with him anyone who was smart enough to hitch a ride on the day. He can work out what use he has for them all later, once the dust has settled.

Anyway, for now at least he has coffee. Or he will have, by the time he’s finished opening up the basement for business; he leaves the stove to do its work while he gets on with the day’s opening chores. 

But dammit, she needs to get back here. He’s not leaving without her.

* * *

The day wears on much as normal, despite the impending disaster. Guardians straggle in to pick up bounties, rewards and pay; the match fixtures for the next few days fill up nicely, with a few names in reserve - and his network of spies and informants sidle in and out with snippets of gossip, dropped casually into conversation in passing. Everything is shaping up exactly as he’d expected, with the only remotely good news being that the Darkness fleet hasn’t actually been sighted yet. But then he’s not sure anyone here would recognise it if it had, so maybe that’s not as reassuring as it ought to be. With everyone’s focus on the Vex and then the Hive, he has no great confidence in the Vanguard’s ability to see the long game going on under their noses. Not like he hasn’t tried to warn ‘em, either. Another wave of bodies surges through the door to join the crowd, and he forces his mind back to business.

The young hunter at the front of the line has been waiting his turn patiently for nearly twenty minutes, inching his way closer as the queue crawls along. Just as he steps up he’s startled by the sudden warming of Drifter’s expression, tired eyes lighting up with recognition and relief - but he droops as he realises it’s not on his account. He turns curiously to see who it is the renegade is so happy to see, but there’s nobody in particular who looks like they'd fit the bill. Perhaps it's the nondescript guardian in battered last-season Gambit gear, one of Drifter's crew maybe? disappearing around the corner to the store with a delivery. _Get you a man who looks at you the way the Drifter looks at his lunch_, the Tower joke goes; he shrugs off his curiosity and hands over his bounty slips.

* * *

It seems to take forever for the queue to die down. Drifter knows it’s his own fault for cramming so much business into these last few days, but at long last everything’s dealt with and he’s free and clear. Time to get moving. Idle stragglers are politely hurried out the door, the shutter goes down - all the way down, not just to halfway - and he all but jogs around the corner to the storage area to find her. She watches him breathlessly slide into view, pivoting neatly with his hand gripping the shelving rack and coming to a halt in front of her with a nonchalant swagger. He swiftly closes the gap, bumping noses in his haste to kiss her.

“Missed me, huh.”.

He shrugs, smirking down at her. “No, why - did ya go somewhere?”. His eager hands give the lie to his teasing, sliding up under her chestpiece and tracing patterns on her back. “Can’t say I noticed.”.

“Bullshit.”, she murmurs, deadpan, and he chuckles.

“Yeah, ya got me. Don’t go tellin’ everyone though, I got a reputation to maintain.”.


	37. The Expert In Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Thus the expert in battle moves the enemy, and is not moved by him.” – Sun Tzu
> 
> Sully hasn't lost their ability to surprise, confound and even terrify the Drifter. And now, on the verge of the war he's been preparing for so diligently, he's about to discover his worst fears might be groundless - but some of his most comfortable assumptions are hollow.

* * *

TRUST AND BELONGING: A TREATISE ON THE ORIGINS AND USAGE OF ELIKSNI WAR CHANTS 

_ Barton, M. et al _

Access to collected works on Eliksni battle traditions granted by kind permission of the Reef Cryptarchy Archive.

** I stand with my brothers _[1] _**

** I will protect them **

** I will avenge them **

** With your own sword _[2]_ I will end you **

** On your own spear I will hoist you **

** A banner to carry in battle**

_Translator’s marginal notes _

_[1] Eliksni ‘lo-vos’ (lit. ‘Wolves') used here denotes a sibling/companion/compatriot group, not necessarily exclusively male, and can also be translated as ‘cadre', ’team' or ‘House’._

_[2] Literal translation is ‘hand’ (or sometimes ‘claw’) however later context suggests a bladed weapon._

* * *

First things first - Drifter strides ahead the moment they arrive back on the Derelict to scan incoming intel streams and fire off a rapid message to the rookie. He cuts the comm without waiting for a response, leaning heavily on the panel and considering his options. Might get a couple of hours to themselves if they’re lucky, but no more than that. Plus she’s only been away for what, ten days? yet it feels like he hasn’t touched her in months - years, even - and that enthusiastic welcome back in the basement has only stoked his appetite. Business can wait.

Muffled sounds from the galley indicate she’s headed straight for the coffee pot; he chuckles as he comes around the partition.

“Priorities, huh. They don’t have coffee on the moon?”.

She settles herself up on the counter, eyeing him serenely over the rim of her cup. “Yours is better.”.

“Damn right.”. He waits for his moment; as she lowers her coffee he intercepts it neatly and puts it aside so he can move in, sliding a hand slowly up along her thigh. “Anyway … did I mention how much I missed ya?”.

“No. Tell me again.”.

Her impish grin is hovering at the corners of her mouth … hell, it’s too inviting. He shows her instead, wrapping himself around her and kissing her urgently. Pleasure courses through him at the gentle pressure of her fingertips on the back of his neck; secondhand warmth from the cup lingers on her hands, like borrowed sunshine soaking into his skin, sending shivers of pleasure down to his toes and back up again. The familiar weakness starts to wash over him, and he welcomes it - by the time he reluctantly breaks the kiss he’s breathing hard, trembling from head to toe. He wants to seal the the moment with some snappy remark, some clever quip, but he’s got nothing. It doesn’t matter. It’s all there to read in his face, from the relieved smile tugging at the corner of his mouth to the lust darkening his eyes ... nothing needs to be said.

He lifts her off the counter and covers the distance to the bed in a few strides, shouldering the hatch open and dropping on to the cushions already tearing at her clothes. No foreplay needed, no careful stoking of the fire; the flames are roaring in him already, scorching the rafters, literally - his light rises up uncontrollably in step with his physical desire, surging up and out from his hands and bathing her in harmless barely-there flame. She looks like a goddess, transcendent, a golden aura flickering around her physical body as she straddles him and arches her back. If the end of days really is just around the corner, maybe he’s just beaten the rush to heaven’s gates. Hell of a way to arrive.

The atmosphere around them quickly warms to blood-heat, thick and humid with the sweat rolling off both of them, catching in the back of his throat as he gasps for breath, rolling over his skin like a lover’s touch - and by damn she’s glowing, _blazing_ on top of him, moaning as he grips her waist and thrusts up into her. Tiny short-lived sparks glisten just above the surface of her skin, shooting off into the dark and twinkling away into nothing; he swears he can smell the bedsheets scorching - _holy shit, if I set fire to the bed I'll never hear the end of it_ \- and yet, strung out between exhilaration and exhaustion, he can’t stop, can’t slow down, can’t wait, can barely hold on long enough to watch her as she peaks and _there it is oh fuck fuck FUCK HERE WE GO_ he comes barely a second later, hurling joyful curses up into the overheated air.

Sweat steams off his skin as he holds her still, keeping her seated on him while he pulses deep inside her. He’d heard that lightplay was turning into a common kink among guardians, but it’s a new experience for him. On balance he decides he approves. Added bonus, the bed doesn’t actually appear to be on fire; honestly he’s not sure he’d have the energy to deal with it if it were. Right now all he’s conscious of is her breathing hard above him, pleasant aftershocks still fluttering through her body, and that’s fine. That’s all he needs for now. And perhaps, he reluctantly acknowledges, a nap.

* * *

No 'perhaps' about it; he's out like a light almost before his heart rate has returned to normal, his body taking control and enforcing a shutdown to compensate for his shattered sleep patterns lately. Eventually he stirs, half-sitting to stretch and peer through the hatch at the chrono display. He’s been out for about an hour, though it feels like it was longer, his brain wiped clean of stress and all his lists and worries sitting patiently off to one side until he’s ready to deal with them. He’d happily take a little longer to appreciate the contrast between this and his previous state, but there’s too much to do right now. “Welp, time to get movin’.”, he mutters regretfully. “Anythin’ I need to know from the moon?”.

“The Darkness is there.”.

He’s not sure he heard her right; she could be commenting on the weather for all the feeling she put into the words. “Say again?”.

“Darkness. On the moon. A pyramid ship, deep under the surface.”.

“_Shit_.”. He’s on his feet even before the end of the sentence, fastening his pants and hurrying to the comm - she follows at a more sedate pace, retrieving her shirt and pulling it on while he starts queueing messages. Automated shortcodes, all of them, to people who already know what they mean and what they need to do, set up long ago to be ready for exactly this. He snaps at her over his shoulder; “Anythin’ you need from the Tower, go get it now. We head out in two hours.”.

“Where?”.

“Anywhere but here, that’s where. You think I'm hangin’ around to wait for the Darkness to come callin’?”.

He knows he’s being short with her, but surely she’ll understand, surely she’ll see why they have to get out of here, she won’t hold it against him. _Surely_. And if she does, well, at least he’ll get the chance to make it up to her later. He hopes. Unbelievably though, she’s not hurrying, she’s not panicking, she’s not - goddammit, she’s not even _moving_, she’s just watching him with a curious stare.

“What the hell … ain’t you listenin'? We have to move!”.

She leans over and covers the comm controls with her hand, preventing him from hitting ’send’ just yet. “The pyramid has been there for centuries. It's a remnant, not an invasion.”.

“You can’t know that.”, he hisses. The relaxed state he woke up in is a distant memory now; he’s practically vibrating with tension, one small step away from diving for his gun.

She holds his gaze, unmoved. “I can, and I do. It has other plans before its friends arrive. We have time.”.

The absolute stone-cold certainty in her voice chills him, freezing his physical reactions for just long enough for his brain to catch up. 

“… you talked to ‘em.”.

She doesn’t reply, but the look in her eye is answer enough.

“_Fuck_. Oh yeah, course you did. Why should the Darkness be left out? Anythin’ else I should know? Daddy Calus tell you anything new lately? The Nine been in touch? Lemme know if I need to put extra coffee on for that asshole with the golden gun, yeah? Might as well complete the whole goddam set!”.

She lets him vent, taking silent note of his list of worries and idly wondering if they’re in priority order or not. Interesting, if so - but that’s a consideration for another time. Finally he runs down, blinking in confusion at her lack of response, and she gives him a moment to breathe before removing her hand from the console. “Do whatever you need to do to feel safe; I have work to do. I’d prefer to do it with your help, but if you can’t … that’s fine. Do what you must.”.

Okay, he’s definitely woken up in some alternate dimension. This is fucking surreal. She’s not angry, she’s not even ruffled, despite him all but screaming in her face from an inch away, and now apparently it’s okay for him to run away because she doesn't need him. _Hell, no_ … he grabs her arm, shaking her slightly for emphasis.

“You gotta come with me. I can’t protect you if you’re not with me.”.

“You’re saying you can protect me from the Darkness?”.

Dammit, he’s said too much - nobody needs to know about that. It jeopardises everything. He shuts down every reaction, staring at her wide-eyed, but it’s too late; the words have been said, and she effortlessly reads the subtext.

“You obviously believe you can; you must have information I don’t. I’d be interested to know what that is.”.

He honestly can’t remember the last time he was this afraid … no, that’s a lie. It was the last time he ever saw Orin. That final argument … he tries to speak through suddenly numb lips, but all that comes out is a bare whisper. “ … can’t.”. _This is it; she’s gonna leave_. He’s about to make the exact same mistake, almost the worst mistake of his life so far, all over again except this time it’ll be with all the benefit of perfect hindsight every step of the way and no way to avoid it. His gut clenches and he tries again, desperately, urgently squeezing out the words, still gripping her sleeve.

“Look, I swear …”.

She cuts him off calmly. “No. No oaths, no promises - just tell me. What do you know?”.

"I can’t … look, it'll put people in danger. People who're countin' on me. I can’t tell you. I need you to trust me.”. _Not gonna beg this time_, his inner voice roars. _Not gonna beg. Didn’t work last time, ain’t gonna work this time_. Every part of him besides his voice is begging nonetheless, from the frantic grip on her arm to the agonised pleading in his eyes. It’s not lost on her, that transparent appeal for understanding; but she looks down and gently disengages his hand after a moment, silently reminding him of the boundary he just overstepped.

He half expects her to walk away right there and then, or at the very least to chide him for the move, but instead she half-shrugs and says, “It’s not a question of trust.”.

“What?.” That makes no sense. Of course it’s about trust, what else could you possibly call it? He needs her to come with him right now, no questions, no arguing, and that takes trust.

“I said, it’s not about trust. You say it’ll endanger people if you tell me everything - well, okay. It’s not like I can force you to tell me. It doesn’t change what I need to do.”.

“Which is what?”.

“Go back. Study the Darkness. Work out how to use it.”.

“You can’t do that - “.

“Watch me.”. Somehow that cool, determined expression is more terrifying than any overt aggression. He’s momentarily stunned by her confidence.

“How?”.

“I use the Traveller’s light every day; the dark is the other side of the coin. It’s just a question of balance.”.

Try as he might he can’t immediately think of a way to refute that, and the pause gives him time to calm down, brain ticking over long-ago conversations and cross-referencing. This is territory he’s seen covered before. He steps back and slumps slowly into the command chair, staring across at nothing while he computes the possibilities.

“Knew a warlock once who talked like that.”, he finally offers. "Symmetry, balance, all that. Didn’t end well for him, poor bastard; y’know that sorta talk scares people.”.

She smiles crookedly. “Everything I do scares people, sooner or later. Does it scare you?”.

A little of his swagger returns; he’s shown enough weakness today. Time to start acting like the survivor he is.

“Hell, I wouldn’t be runnin' Gambit if it did - what did you think all this was about, anyway? You’ve been through that invasion portal enough times.”.

She nods, like she’s had a theory confirmed. “Then we have basically the same idea?”.

He sighs, rolling his shoulders to release some of the tension. “I guess … but I was hopin’ we’d have more people, better prepared. A team. Shit, I had a whole plan. You can’t just go and do this on your own.”.

“I wasn’t planning to.”. She sounds amused. “All that lone wolf bullshit … that’s not me. I go ahead, not alone, and others follow when they see it can be done. Anything you can tell me will help.”.

“Look.”. He stands up and moves in front of her again, gripping her shoulders gently and gazing at her. “I can’t tell you any more than I already have - but if you’re plannin’ what I think you are, you already got everything you need.”. He stops, struck by a sudden thought. “Or maybe … “.

He disengages abruptly and heads across the bridge to one of the recessed storage lockers behind the galley alcove. She watches in silence as he stabs a code into the keypad, flinging open the door and impatiently rooting through the contents until he comes up with a tiny matt-black square no bigger than his thumbnail.

“Here.”. He lifts her hand and presses the object firmly into her palm, closing her fingers over it with finality. “Schematic for somethin’ you might find useful. Rookie’s got the prototype if you want to take a look.”.

She hasn’t broken eye contact, not even to glance at the data card, as if the information she’s most interested in right now is encoded in his face somewhere instead. And maybe it is; she looks like she’s just cracked the cipher to her satisfaction. A slow smile warms her face as she tucks the card in a pocket of her shirt and starts to turn away.

“Wait - you’re leavin' right now?”.

She halts, quirking an eyebrow at him. “I thought you had things to do?”.

“Well yeah, but - if the world's not endin’ in the next half hour, I might have some better ideas.”. _And just maybe I can persuade you to stay with me_, he adds silently to himself.

He has the strangest feeling she caught the words he didn’t say aloud, as that familiar mischief flashes across her face, but all she says is “I bet you do. Let’s try not to set the bed on fire this time, though.”.


	38. Aiming To Misbehave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There's things in the dark that only the dark can overcome. Trust me.". - The Drifter
> 
> Sully has a lot to think about, with the discovery that Drifter knows far more about the Darkness than he's chosen to share. Just like they told him, it's not a question of trust or distrust ... it's about how much they can learn from the spaces between the words he chose to say. And whether it will be enough to get the job done.

**\----------------------------------------------------------**

**malfeasance **(n)  
mal·fea·sance | \ ˌmal-ˈfē-zᵊn(t)s

_"... wrongdoing, especially of an act in violation of trust."_

_\----------------------------------------------------------------_

At the back of his mind Drifter had the faintest glimmer of a cunning scheme - that perhaps if he pleased her enough, right here and now, she’d change her mind and stay longer. A foolish hope; she’s already made her decision. Even if he wasn’t smart enough to figure it out for himself after all this time, he’s had enough people warn him about trying to own her - but damn it, it bugs him knowing she’ll be walking into the darkness and he can’t prevent it. Hero or no hero, she’s still vulnerable.

Nobody can say he didn't give it his best shot, after coaxing her back to bed one more time. Determined to make it count, he takes it slow and easy, summoning all the patience, all the care and attention that deserted him before. No flames this time, no desperation. No rush. He covers her, holding her down and just moving slightly against her, taking one nipple and then the other into his mouth and teasing with his tongue, resting his thigh between her legs to give her some little friction then pulling back when she starts to tense. She's close to orgasm, trembling and arching off the bed, before he's even got his pants off. When he finally strips and settles back against her she grips his shoulders and pulls him down greedily, wrapping her legs around him so he can't escape this time, and he grins fiercely as he slides into her. _Damn that's good_ ... he shudders as he bottoms out, filling her, stretching her, perfectly docked. He barely moves, just rocking his hips against her until her skin blazes with silver light and she whispers breathless curses into his ear. _There it is_. If his cock could talk it'd be whimpering right now, straining to be let loose and race away, but he reigns it in and concentrates on the sensations right now from her core clenching around him, the shivers he gets from her breath on his neck and her fingernails digging into his skin. He doesn't think he'll ever get tired of watching her come, that expression of furious incredulous joy, unconstrained. Maybe other people get to see it too, doesn't matter. He made it happen; this one is _his_ trophy.

He ducks his head to kiss her thoroughly, nestling into her and sliding a hand down to her ass to hold her in place while he starts to move. His fingers splay out and dig in to her flesh, gripping her with each deep stroke. _Keep it slow, keep it slow_ ... unbelievably she's tensing against him already, nails scoring down his back, and he pulls back a little to see her face.

"You ready to go again, hero?", he croons triumphantly, and she laughs up at him.

"Less talking.", she commands breathlessly. "_Shit_ ...", and she arches back, "just keep doing what you're doing ...".

Her voice fades into nothing as a wave of pleasure runs through her, and he obediently shuts up and fastens his lips on her collarbone, biting and sucking on the tender skin and holding her tightly in place while she moans her approval. 

The sound of her, the feel of her, the tremors running through her body all lift him up and hurl him towards his own finish whether he's ready or not. As she comes again her nails rip across his back, tearing the skin slightly, and the pleasure/pain jolts him over the line. He gasps incoherently, short sharp breaths as his muscles beg for oxygen to fuel his thrusts; he groans beside her ear at the final deep stroke, plunging into her and halting with a strangled "Oh, fuck -".

Well, so much for keeping it slow ... but if his aim was to prove how good they are together, he'd have to admit it was a success. Maybe she can't stay, but she'll aim to come back - right? That's something he can safely hope for, just for a change.

* * *

All too soon she's shifting from under him, reaching for her clothes and gear, gathering herself to leave; he watches her preparations from the warmth of the hollow their bodies made in the cushions, wondering if it's too late to try yet another tactic. _Desperate, much?_ his dark inner voice sneers, and he grimaces. Time to accept the inevitable. He pulls himself together and follows her out to the bridge.

Some things are constant; she refreshes the coffee pot, a pointed glance at him as she tips away her abandoned cup from earlier reminding him that she never got to finish it. He chuckles unrepentantly as he fires up his console to scan his incoming intel. Shortly afterwards she places a fresh brew at his elbow and glances idly at the screen.

"Anything to worry about?", she queries.

"Besides the usual? Nah. Vanguard ain't payin' attention, but I got other sources. If anythin' kicks off I'll know.". He takes a swig of his coffee and pretends not to watch her checking her pack ready to leave. "Where's next for you?". 

She straightens up and hefts the pack on to her shoulder. "Talk to Jacob, I think. Not sure after that.".

He frowns; that's not enough information, he needs to know exactly where she'll be. Damn it, he doesn't have any tracker chips prepared either - should've thought ahead. Too late now, anyway. She'd heading for the transmat already and he's out of time and out of things to say. He chases after her anyway.

"Hey!.".

She looks back at him with a question in her eyes, and his brain goes blank - fond goodbyes, not really his thing. Or hers, come to that. He blows out his breath hopelessly and spreads his hands in defeat.

"Don't die out there.".

Her filthy laugh rings out as the blue glow envelopes her and whisks her away, 

* * *

Seabirds circle high overhead, calling out as they circle in hopes of food. Jacob smiles at their scolding tone and shouts up at them.

“I’m not a boat, you stupid creatures. No fish here.”.

He stands back from the bank and runs it through a couple more cycles, listening intently as the mechanism rises up from the platform and again as it descends; sounds fine now. The last team to play here reported some issues with the pistons sticking, but a little bit of basic maintenance seems to have cleared it up. He allows himself a brief nod of satisfaction and turns back to Drifter’s schedule for his next task. He has a sneaking suspicion the lengthy list is just a way of getting him out of the basement so he’ll stop dropping pointed hints about when his partner last got some sleep. No question but that all these things need doing - just maybe they weren’t all that urgent until Drifter decided he needed some peace and quiet.

Speaking of which … the EDZ arena has always been his favourite, evoking some memory he’s never quite been able to capture. It feels like a place he could have known, even in its current ruined state; he likes to sit up high on top of the rocks and look out to sea whenever he gets the chance. Drifter would probably make some sharp comment about him wasting time indulging himself, but - Drifter's not here. He can please himself.

The rocks out in the narrow bay are smooth from years of battering by the tide, slippery growths of moss clinging to the surface here and there and making the climb more adventurous. It’s always worth the effort through; he claims his perch and sits with his elbows resting on his knees, letting the calm of the place soak into him. Once upon a time, before the Collapse when people still lived here, they must have enjoyed this place. Strolling along the beach on a fine day, children running down at low tide to look at the rock pools and turn over interesting shells to see what lived in them … it’s such a strong mental image that it feels almost like a memory, but the details slip away from him whenever he tries to examine it. He regretfully lets it go, feeling the pull of duty calling, and prepares to jump down.

His feet hit the shingle at the exact same moment that he registers the silent figure standing up in the ruins on his left; his hand automatically goes to his weapon before recognition strikes and he relaxes again, calling up to them.

“You’re back, then. All set for the apocalypse?”.

Sully drops neatly down from the crumbling stonework and walks to meet him, holding something out. He takes it without thinking, only looking down when it’s in his hand - ration-issue dark chocolate squares, the good kind from long ago, vacuum-sealed and ‘Good For A Hundred Years - Guaranteed!’ as the gaudy wrapper proudly proclaims.

“Where in hell did you get this?”, he exclaims. Sully grins at his delighted reaction, watching him tear open the foil and nibble a corner.

“Came across an Eliksni stash on the moon. They’ve been hoarding everything they found in the old crew quarters, so I … um … repatriated some of it.”.

“Oh, this stuff is the best.”, he mumbles thickly around a mouthful of the sweet confection. “How’d you know I’d like it?”.

“Lucky guess.”, they shrug as if it’s nothing; in truth they’ve been paying attention to the rookie’s likes and dislikes ever since they started working together, just in case they ever had the opportunity to do him a favour.

He swallows and goes to take another bite, then hesitates. “So, you’re all set to come to Titan?”, he asks, and their expression turns to just a hint of mischief.

“No, I have somewhere else to be. I expect I’ll catch up with you later.”.

Jacob sighs heavily. “Fuck, really? He was a mess while you were away. Now I'll have to put up with him being a miserable son of a bitch again.”.

“That bad?”.

“Well - he was just cranky, to start with. But three days ago something else must have happened. I came up to the Derelict in the morning and found him sleeping at the comm with his gun drawn, and he hasn’t slept in his bed since. Something about needing to be ready, and that’s all he’ll tell me.”.

They nod slightly, staring out to sea. “Three days. That figures. Anyway,”, they smoothly turn the conversation, “on the subject of needing to be ready, Drifter says you have the prototype of something I might need to look at.”. Their ghost obligingly hovers next to them, projecting a holo of the weapon schematic.

“Malfeasance. Yeah. We built it together, him and me - he seemed to think it would give us the edge when things get bad.”.

“What’s special about your version?”, they ask curiously. “I’ve seen hundreds of these in Gambit now.”.

He hesitates, staring down at his feet while he considers possible answers that won’t make him sound delusional. In his head he knows it’s special because - well, it was the first, and because it sealed the deal, the idea that he and Drifter had some kind of relationship beyond the transactional. It’s special because it laid the groundwork of trust for their eventual partnership. It’s special because they worked on it together over several days; because while they gathered the materials, while they tensely monitored the forge output readings, while they watched the mould cool and the weapon take shape Drifter talked, _really_ talked, sharing stories and memories and insights from his long life and the dark happenings that shaped him.

Eventually he shakes his head, exasperated. “This is gonna sound stupid, but … all the later versions are just guns. Churned out by the dozen, bought and sold. This one was forged in friendship.”.

He braces slightly against their expected derision, but when he cautiously glances up they're looking thoughtful. “Who named it?”.

“Drifter did. Said it was a badass gun that needed a badass name. It means ‘misbehaving’.”.

“Ah.”. They say no more, and he unholsters the hand cannon and passes it over for them to study. It's very obviously the same gun as in the schematic, apparently identical to the many copies being carried around by other guardians. It doesn’t even look like a functional weapon, with all that openwork on the cylinder and the barrel; hard to see how it could propel a bullet even once, let alone fifteen times. But hold it in your hand, let the grip settle into your palm and your fingers curl around it ... and the blue-black sheen swirls aside, showing faint pinpoints of blue-white light sparking in lazy spirals on the surface of the barrel. A dark mist curls around the end of the muzzle. _Welcome_, it seems to say. _Ready. Aim_.

They stare at the gun so intently he could swear they’re scanning it, like a ghost running an analysis. But before he’s brave enough to ask what they’re looking for they smile, just a brief flash of satisfaction, and hand it back briskly. “Nice. Thank you.”.

They turn away and transmat out instantly, winking out in a blue glow before he can ask what they’re thinking. He shuts his mouth with a snap, murmurs “Okay then.”, and looks down at the chocolate in his hand. This is too rare a treat to bolt down in haste; after a second’s consideration he climbs back up on his mossy throne to savour the rest of his unexpected gift in leisurely solitude. _King of the beach!_, yells his inner five-year-old, and he smiles.

* * *

<You didn’t tell him ... it’s not like you to pass up a chance to educate someone on what words really mean. ‘Misbehaving’, hah!>

_yeah, weird_

_i must be mellowing in my old age_

<You must be.>

_and also getting better at picking my battles_

_now’s not the time for a semantics lesson_

<For making him question his loyalty to the Drifter, you mean.>

_exactly_

_set course, please_

_thieves landing next_


	39. Motes Of Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In case we forgot, Drifter hasn't quite managed to outrun - or outlive - all of his old enemies. While he's been busy making his plans for surviving the next Dark Age, other people might have been busy too.

Gloom creeps back over the transmat pads, sullen contrast to the energy flash that whisked the silver titan away - and the energy she lent it simply by standing there, lit up with laughter at his parting shot. Any time he makes her laugh out loud like that is a treasure, even if he didn’t mean to, but damn … did she have to run away so soon? The smile that briefly warmed his features fades to blank, like a shutter slowly coming down; he stares absently at the empty pad for a second, tapping his fingers restlessly against his leg before turning and striding swiftly back to the bridge, calling up his ghost with a curt snap of his fingers. His mind is racing ahead to everything else that needs to be done, let’s see, first on the list -

\- hold up. Something feels weird.

He blinks, whipping around to look behind him, and that's when it dawns on him; no shadows in the corners of his vision. No prickling sense of being observed. No whispers. Thinking back, not a damn thing since she showed up in the basement a few hours ago. Maybe he should feel relieved, but he doesn't; reality settling down and behaving as it should all of a sudden is as disorienting as its original shift off-kilter. And if she’s at the centre of it … well, that’s not good. Just about every dark force in the galaxy is out there doing its best to recruit her, and he knows exactly where he comes on that particular food chain. If it comes down to a fight, he'll lose.

His ghost is still hovering silently beside him, waiting for instructions.

“Analysis. Energy readings.”, he snaps. “Command deck, wide spectrum, last twenty-four hours.”.

He heads to the console while he waits for the results, tapping out a new sequence to sample an intercept of channels between the Vanguard and their agents on the moon. It’s laughable how easy that is to do once you have the right seed for the hash generator, especially once you know they haven’t changed it in the last ten years … guess all their best crypto people got bombed out by the Cabal. He shrugs at those uncounted deaths, ever pragmatic. Vanguard's loss, his gain.

He’s still scanning the complex message streams for keywords of interest when his ghost flashes up the display of the energy readings he requested, and he swivels in his chair to stare at the heat map. It’s disturbing viewing; he’d expected the background levels of Taken energy resulting from his work in Gambit and the proximity of the Haul. But the angry scarlet blotches blossoming and swirling around his marker as he went through his usual routine the previous day, that’s new. They fade to nothing when he leaves the ship in the morning; and then he arrives back on board, what, three hours or so ago with her … and a single blood-red spot pulses in the transmat corridor for a second before her marker passes through it and it winks out.

“What the hell …?”, he mutters, raising a hand to repeat the last few seconds of the playback and leaning forward to watch it more closely. Four more repetitions and he’s still no closer to an answer, not one that makes sense anyway. Did she just pick up that dark energy and absorb it as easily as picking up a Gambit mote? That’s what it looked like, but it can’t be. _Shouldn’t_ be. Not possible.

More than ever he’s regretting not keeping her close; if that’s a sample of her abilities then she’s more central to his plans than he could have imagined, and that kind of power walking around out there is bound to draw unwelcome attention before he can get her safely back under his protection. 

_She don’t need your protection_, his inner voice needles. _Startin’ to look like you need hers_.

His hand hovers tentatively over the comm control, poised to open a channel while he conjures some convincing emergency that’ll get her back here before she gets too far … no, that’s the wrong tack. It might work short-term, but it’ll backfire, she’ll see through it sooner or later and she’ll resent him, it might push her away altogether. He’ll lose her. Damn it, why can’t he think straight around her? He pushes back from the panel and runs his hands through his hair distractedly, leaving it sticking up in all directions. _Focus, idiot. Spent long enough workin' on this plan, now stick to it._

* * *

Every other part of the plan is coming together just fine. It certainly gets easier to concentrate once his crew starts showing up, coming aboard in ones and twos at apparently random times to coincide with Gambit teams moving around and scheduled patrols heading out of the city - perfect cover so as not to alert the Vanguard to this phase of his activities. Caused enough fuss last time he had to skip town, and he doesn’t doubt they’ll be keeping tabs on his people now. He’s not giving them the chance to put a spoke in his wheel. He sees each one aboard with huge relief, waving them toward the updated roster and quarters allocation he’s posted in the corner by the galley.

Although the Derelict hasn’t had a proper permanent crew for some time he’s maintained the old quarters intact, a half-deck of prefab cabin pods on the level immediately below command. Considerably more roomy than the sleep capsules on his recovery vessel, they're each around the same dimensions as his container out back; he has no hesitation in assigning two to a cabin where that works for the two concerned. Piet and Triss are a case in point, arriving separately but reuniting for a surreptitious hand-clasp and a heartfelt glance before turning to the roster and checking for their assigned duties. The sight of them openly - more or less - affirming their deep connection causes bitter bile to rise in his throat, envy choking him for just a second. Thankfully nobody’s watching, and by the time anyone looks his way he’s idly scanning his checklist as if nothing is wrong.

Raven and Asa arrive together, hitching a lift with one of his suppliers and helping to unload the gear. He was in two minds about including the surly titan this time around, but he’s forced to admit the boy did alright on the last mission once he got over his attitude. As long as he can follow orders, he’s in.

Jacob is the last of the Tower contingent to arrive, dragging a huge duffel in addition to his usual backpack, and he hesitates in the open hatch to the bridge while he covertly tries to assess Drifter’s current mood. Not quite as covert as he’d hoped though, evidently, as Drifter glares at him and pointedly turns his back. Well, that answers that question - cranky as all hell. He dumps his bags in the corner and comes further on to the bridge.

“Any changes to the plan?”. He carefully avoids adding ’since Sully isn’t with us’, but the unspoken rider hangs in the air between them. Drifter lets that pass without comment and flicks a hand at the roster.

“Nope. Get your stuff stowed, pick up your chores. We leave in one hour - head to Titan, pick up the Gambit teams from there for the week as we go. Then Nessus for the following week. Rinse and repeat, 'til the world ends.”.

He punctuates that with a bitter crack of laughter, but nobody seems inclined to join in. Maybe you can joke about the apocalypse after your first one has been and gone and you’re still standing, but right now he's the only person on board who fits that category. Raven glances nervously over at the two of them, and Jacob lifts a hand subtly by his side in a calming gesture. Time to calm the tension. He picks a safe topic, one he knows Drifter can riff on for ten minutes straight without repeating a swearword once you get him started.

“Won’t people notice it’s the same two arenas on rotation for weeks in a row? You know how they bitch.”.

Drifter considers this with his head on one side, grudgingly accepting it’s a possibility.

“Yeah, maybe. But they wanna play Gambit, don’t they? They’ll show up. We’ll just tell ‘em we had to take some out of play so we can upgrade ‘em.”.

“And then they’ll complain nothing has changed when they go back to those maps …”.

‘Oh, you reckon?”. The tangent is working, lightening the general mood; Drifter finally relaxes back in the command chair with an easy grin, conjuring a coin from somewhere and flipping it from one hand to the other. "Lemme tell ya what’ll happen; half of ‘em are gonna bitch because whatever we did made it worse; the other half'll bitch because now the other maps ain’t as good. You gotta lot to learn about working with guardians, kid - they see what they think they’ll see, and they think what they wanna think regardless.”.

Satisfied with the success of his tactic, Jacob grins and murmurs “Yeah, you’re probably right.”, and heads below to stow his gear while they get underway. _Hurry back, Sully._

* * *

This time the Derelict leaving doesn’t cause so much as a ripple in the Tower’s surveillance operations. Gambit matches are scheduled for Titan, the Derelict is heading in the right direction at the right time for that, the Drifter doesn't appear to be doing anything out of the ordinary … it doesn’t even merit an entry in the intel log for Zavala’s people to pick up later; the graveyard shift at Tower control just adds the standard note on the tally of outbound vessels leaving Earth orbit as dictated by City procedure and leaves it at that.

If they could see him now though, perhaps they’d be more concerned. With coordinates laid and the initial boost out of orbit successfully completed, he dismisses everyone off to get some rest or arrange their cabins or whatever the hell it takes to get them out of his hair so he can mope in peace. He firmly includes Jacob in that, knowing the rookie won’t hesitate to ask about Sully’s absence if he gets the chance. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Hell, he doesn’t even want to _think_ about it … but inevitably that’s what he finds himself doing, sitting alone on the bridge late into the night and staring bleakly out at the view screen even though there’s nothing to see that he hasn’t seen a thousand times before.

In truth he’s not really seeing it now; instead his mind is replaying every detail of his last conversation with her, trying to work out if he missed any angle, made any mistake that might jeopardise her coming back to him. She took what he said at face value, far as he can tell, but he’s uncomfortably aware that he didn’t cover himself with glory in that moment. Probably she thinks he’s a coward, running off and looking after number one instead of mucking in and supporting the City. _We can’t all be heroes_, he argues with the vision of her in his head. _I tried to warn ‘em_. Eventually he falls into an uneasy doze, leaning back in the chair with one hand lightly on the butt of his gun - very much not how he’d hoped he’d be spending the night.

He’s prodded awake mid-watch by faint but insistent beeping from the ship’s AI, one pale green light blinking in the semi-dark of the silent bridge signalling that they’ve reached Titan and taken up orbit without mishap. In the faint pool of light cast back from the console screen he shifts blearily, scratching his beard and stretching, smirking slightly as the scratches she left on his back twinge in protest.

Movement on the console screen catches his eye; he left his intercepts running while he dozed, snippets of text still scrolling up at infrequent intervals. He frowns abruptly and leans back in, halting the feed with a decisive keystroke and reversing the flow to bring back the one that just disappeared off the top of the screen.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Keyword [darkness] [shadows] [**yor**]_

_Context [**current location**] [last known location] [threat level] [hostile]_

_Source [**praxic** ..confidence 89%..] [**tower** ..confidence 54%..] _

_Snippet [ … appears to have been **abandoned** in the last few hours, completely cleared out … current whereabouts **unknown** … ]_

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He curses under his breath, fingers flying over the keyboard as he runs additional searches looking for correlation from his unofficial networks. If the reports he’s seeing are accurate and the remnants of the Shadows of Yor really have gone to ground, that’s a bad sign, very bad. What’s left of the group now is a vanishingly small number, true - but that just seems to have distilled the lunacy into a higher concentration over fewer people. And some of those lunatic few have deep, long-held grudges on his account … oh, he’s got a bad feeling about this.


	40. Chasing The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sully drops in to see an old friend, and Drifter heads to Titan to kick off the new Gambit schedule. He really isn't getting any better at waiting for what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kells, as I imagine it, is basically a cross between Dungeons and Dragons and the old Norse game Kings, with a hint of Battleships thrown in. The more I write about it the more I want to make it a real thing :)

False dawn tints the horizon beyond the rig; distant Sol’s light scattering off Saturn’s rings and arriving secondhand an hour or two before the real thing. It’d be a view worth stopping to appreciate, if it weren’t for the freezing rain whipping horizontally across the walkway. Maybe later. For now they hurry to get under cover.

They've landed at the far _far_ side of the main rig, well away from Sloane’s watchful eye, heading for a square building with faded decals identifying it as the secondary shuttle hangar. There are no shuttles, of course, and haven’t been for centuries. The tiny personnel carriers haven't been able to operate in the moon's hostile climate since the Golden Age terraforming effort broke down sometime after the Collapse. But the building itself is bustling with activity, repurposed as a warehouse and distribution centre for the maintenance and engineering crews. Workers in faded blue overalls are visible in the distance, moving crates or walking the floor-to-ceiling storage racks looking for the parts they need. There's that particular sense of organised disorder that says, despite the clutter, somebody here has a system of sorts and knows where everything is.

Evidently Drifter knows his way around; he heads confidently for the small office at the far side, mounting the steps and swinging through the door to greet the mountain of a man squeezed in behind the battered desk. Nods are exchanged, glimmer is transferred, a docket is received - all without a word - and he steps back out with a satisfied glint in his eye.

“Okay, let’s get to it. Down here.”.

He leads the crew between the shelves, scanning the location labels until he finds what he’s looking for, then stands back with a flourish.

“Got it. Those two crates …”, he checks against the serial numbers on his docket, “and that one there.”.

“Do the Vanguard know you use their stores for your personal projects?”, Triss asks, and he grins knowingly.

“Well, all this ain't strictly Vanguard property. Lotta people live on this rig, and not all of ‘em only have two arms, if ya catch my drift. Bern's got a nice little side business goin', trading whatever they find for whatever they need.”.

Jacob smiles to himself; the local black market economy - ‘Bern’s pension plan’ as it’s known around here - isn’t news to him, after all his time working with his partner. And the short figure in maintenance blue heading purposefully in their direction is no stranger either.

“Hey, trouble.”, he greets the boy. “Making sure we don’t take the wrong crates?”.

“Making sure you keep your thieving dead hands off my stuff, yep.”.

He doesn’t look like he’s entirely joking, and he stares suspiciously at the new faces until Drifter turns to face him.

“Easy, Noush - got some new people on the crew. Be nice.”.

Noush scowls at each of them in turn, clearly not impressed. This is new territory for some of them, accustomed to the deference of Tower crew and city residents grateful for the Vanguard’s protection; it’s a common attitude amongst guardians to view non-lightbearers as a fragile subset of humanity, in need of their protection at all times, and the derision and dislike radiating off this youngster is unsettling. He’s hardly a threat - he barely comes up to Jacob’s shoulder, and under the blue overalls he's plump, flabby even, distinctly thick around the middle. His collar tabs mark him as a junior comms technician, but that doesn’t mean anything; pragmatic people wear whatever fits when there’s work to be done. However the small tool case clutched possessively in his hand suggests he knows his way round the systems that keep this place connected to the outside world, and Drifter’s next question confirms that impression.

“Picked up anythin’ new since I was last here?”.

“Nothing to worry about.”, Noush replies calmly. “The usual chatter from the moon. Hive song coming through from the Arcology, but I stood up a new waveform to suppress it. Other than that, all routine.”.

“Nice. Just the way I like it.”. Drifter picks up the smallest of the crates and gestures to the crew to deal with the others. “We’ll get outta your way.”.

* * *

The mysterious crates turn out to be nothing more interesting than stock for the Gambit arena - ammo mostly, plus some refurbished parts for the signal beacons. “Noush’s handiwork.”, Drifter comments as he pulls an aerial array out of its protective wrapping and checks it over. “Kid’s a genius, ain’t found anythin' he can’t do when it comes to signals.”.

“Yeah, but what's with his attitude?”, Asa murmurs.

Drifter snorts a laugh. “You all need to get out more. Not everybody creams their pants at the sight of a guardian - get used to it.”.

He heads straight to the command centre to fix up the new parts without waiting for an answer, leaving them to get on with stocking the ammo lockers and setting the timers. Just for a change Jacob is in the happy position of not having to chase around and complete all the tasks singlehanded, so once he’s shown them all the mechanisms he stands back and oversees. Nice to be able to delegate, he reflects. There’s no way of knowing how long they’ll be running this two-week rotation between Saturn’s moon and the nearby centaur, but it’ll be good to have a few more people able to pick up the workload while they’re at it.

Drifter seems to have the same idea; once he returns he checks everyone’s work thoroughly, making sure they know what he’s looking for and why, almost like he’s thinking longer-term as well. But that’s exactly what it is - when nothing is certain and anything is possible, surrounding yourself with competent people is undoubtedly the best way to be ready for anything. For all the recent intel suggesting the end of the world is imminent, he still wants his crew to know what they’re doing with the kit while he still has a use for it. It’s only basic good sense. Good management, even, if such a mundane term can be applied to the renegade.

Matches run as smoothly as matches ever do; losers muttering about cheating and overpowered weaponry, winners crowing about superior tactics, the bank stuffed with motes and the decks slippery with gore. Gambit teams never get to see the aftermath, and probably just as well; the sight of Drifter’s cold, distant expression as he loots anything worth stealing from the fallen enemies would probably send most of them running straight back to the Vanguard. It’s a disturbing sight for his newer crew members, too. Not that they see him as any kind of moral example, but still … it’s a side to him they hadn’t expected, even after that trip out of the system. He seems unbothered by their discomfort, and when he catches Raven covertly staring, clear distaste in her face, he laughs out loud.

“Don’t like what yer seein', sister? Just be glad I ain’t hungry today.”.

He lifts the outflung arm of the Phalanx he was stripping of its armour and ornaments, patting the pale flesh as if assessing a cut of meat, and winks. She stares wide-eyed for a second before muttering “... _gross_.”, and turning away. She hears him chuckle darkly as he gets on with his macabre task.

* * *

He was almost certainly kidding about roasted Cabal, but Raven can’t help but be grateful it’s her turn to cook at the end of the day - at least she can be sure of what’s going into the pot that way. She serves up stir-fried vegetables with scorched slivers of beef, heavy on the spice, and soft flour tortillas made to a recipe begged from a friend back at the Tower. The smell of it as it's cooking draws an expectant crowd to the galley doorway long before it's ready, and she has to shoo them aside so she can get to the table and put the heavy pan down in the middle.

“Careful you don't end up on the roster to cook every day.”, Jacob teases, diving in to load up his plate.

“Not a problem.”, she claps back. “Plenty of ration stew in the store.”.

A hasty chorus of denials rises around the table and she flashes a wicked grin at them all as she takes her first bite of her own food.

Drifter can’t decide if he’s happy to have company or not; he’s got used to having the command deck to himself, and once he's done eating it’s not long before he ducks out back to sit alone in his bomb shelter. It’d be easy to pretend he didn’t know why he’s out of sorts, but the reason is obvious. She’s not here, and she should be. That's all. She’s out saving the goddam universe instead of … well, whatever she’d be doing if she were here. Cleaning her guns, maybe. Drinking coffee. Sitting up on the camp bed and smiling that wicked, inviting smile … _dammit. It ain’t gonna help thinking about it_. But it's too late, he is thinking about it, in excruciating detail. The sense of her being almost-but-not-quite close enough to touch rises up and crashes over him, choking him with frustration. His hands feel empty and useless, twisting against each other as he tries to turn his mind to something, _anything_ else.

Eventually he straightens up with a resigned sigh, raking his fingers through his hair a couple of times and calling up his ghost. “Fuck it. Open a channel, see if you can reach her.”.

It takes a minute, but at last there’s a faint crackle and the static-filled hiss of a weak connection - she must be underground somewhere. He smiles faintly.

“Hey, hero. Can you talk?”.

“Not really.”.

His smile fades - she's not alone. At least he’s hearing her real voice, so that means she's in a non-hostile environment, but still … this isn’t what he was hoping for. He stares blankly at the wall while he tries to think of something innocuous to say. Something she’ll get, something that’ll convey how much he’s missing her, without anybody else around her catching on. How the hell do you do that, though? He finally settles for, “You done with that side quest yet? Got a job for ya.”.

Damn, maybe that was a little too businesslike; there’s flat silence at the other end. Normally he can sense if she’s smiling somehow, and this doesn’t feel like one of those times. He takes a deep breath and tries again.

“C’mon kid, don’t be like that - you _know_ I need you out here. How long you reckon you’re gonna be?”. _Please let that do it, please let her get the message ..._

Sounds like she’s pacing, and the background hiss changes subtly like she’s moved to a different space.

“A few days. I’ll join you at Nessus.”.

That’s all he gets before the connection cuts off - but at least she didn’t sound pissed. It’ll have to do. He sighs and sifts irritably through the clutter on his workbench, looking for something to occupy his brain. His hand comes up with a jade coin, a botched carving half-finished and tossed aside in frustration weeks ago, and he eyes the design thoughtfully. Might be able to salvage it after all … he picks up a needle file and gets to work.

* * *

“He gets to hear you speak, then … interesting. Are the rumours true?”.

Some say the Spider never sleeps; but every once in a while he takes an hour or two away from his many business interests for some social niceties - and for this guardian, he’ll always make the effort. It’s been months since they both had the time to sit down for a proper game of Kells and a foray through his carefully-curated collection of Earth liqueurs. A line of empty shot glasses on either side of the table attests to a successful evening’s sampling. Sully returns to their seat and smiles wryly.

“Which ones? If even half of them were true I’d be dead from exhaustion by now.”.

Spider laughs harshly and leans over the game board. “You have a reputation, my friend. And as for him … people tell me he is kept _quite_ busy enough by his charming young apprentice.”.

“Ah? wouldn’t surprise me.”, they murmur noncommittally. “He’s cute enough.”.

“Hmph.”. Spider was hoping for more of a reaction to that titbit, if only for mischief’s sake, but it looks like he won’t get one. He abandons the topic and returns to studying their interrupted game.

It’s not looking good; he’s trapped right back in his starting corner following a series of miscalculations, undoing several rounds of patient manoeuvring in order to take advantage of an opening on his opponent’s left flank. By the time he realised his error he’d already upgraded his Archon to Warlord, abandoning a nascent stronghold and advancing all but one of his divisions to assure a decisive victory. Somehow every one of his assaults has failed, his troops effortlessly converted and claimed by the enemy’s high-persuasion Archon. He should have been paying more attention to those stat boosts, he knows now. But here he is, reduced to one Ketch, his Warlord hiding behind his last remaining division, and a single Scout marooned on the far side unable to get back to reinforce his position.

“Your Archon does not play fair.”, he snarls and Sully chuckles gleefully.

“Archons never do. And yours has been making illegal moves the whole game, my friend - don’t think I didn’t notice. Would you like to concede?”.

He reviews his position one more time; maybe there’s a chance if he brings half the division out as a feint and … no. Damn them, the guardian has a blockade in place cutting off his supply lines. He can’t equip troops to move out now without employing a blatant cheat, and to be reduced to that would be a defeat in its own right. He’s beaten fair and square.

“Gah! I concede. Remind me never to play you again.”.

“You said that last time.”, Sully murmurs, sitting back and draining their glass. “Your optimism is inspiring.”.

Spider laughs heartily, genuine amusement bouncing off the metal walls and echoing down the corridor.

“Ah, you are my favourite guardian, have I told you? Fearless as a hatchling, lethal as a Kell, obnoxious as an Awoken. Oh … no offence.”, he adds with not an ounce of sincerity. “But you still haven’t told me what brings you to the Shore. Business, I assume?”.

“Just some research. I need components for a project.”. They gather up their tokens, absently stacking them in small piles. “Something to fight the Darkness. Either here, or up past the Watchtower, I think I'll find what I need.”.

He absorbs that tiny collection of hints in silence. He’s known them a long time, and between their rebellious streak and the clear evidence of their association with the Drifter, he can guess what's up. ‘Chasing the dark to ask where the light went', as Eliksni matriarchs like to cluck disapprovingly about youngsters who don’t heed warnings. He fixes them with a meaningful glare, the full force of his four bright eyes resting on their face.

“Wielding the dark carries grave risks, brother. Ask your new friend.”.

Sully sits up straight at his use of the Eliksni familial term. That wasn’t a slip of the tongue; Spider obviously has real concerns. Real _concern_, singular, for this singular individual, otherwise he wouldn’t have made a point of stressing the relationship they carefully don’t acknowledge outside these walls.

“I know.”.

They don’t elaborate on what it is they know, holding his gaze evenly while he tries to judge whether his dual message has hit home. Finally he shrugs reluctant acceptance, turning back to the game board and gathering up his own scattered pieces to put them away.

“I see. Just keep any trouble well away from me, if you please. A little war may be good for business, but I don’t want my Shore cursed like your idiot people’s homeland. You Awoken - never know when to leave well enough alone.”.

Their face lights up with an evil grin, mischief dancing in their eyes once again. “I always thought that was my Eliksni side showing.”.

He growls in mock-irritation at the jibe, swiping at them with a lazy claw as they rise from the game board and head for the door.

“Try not to die. I'll be _very_ annoyed if I have to find a new Kells partner.”.


	41. The Red Thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can a second Malfeasance be as good as the first? Drifter and Sully set out to test the theory, and he learns more than he could have hoped for about their past.

* * *

_"According to Chinese legend, the deity in charge of 'the red thread' is believed to be Yuè Xià Lǎorén (月下老人), often abbreviated to Yuè Lǎo (月老), the old lunar matchmaker god, who is in charge of marriages. The two people connected by the red thread are destined lovers, regardless of place, time, or circumstances. _

_This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break."_

* * *

True to her word, she appears on board unannounced the day after they arrive on Nessus. The ready room is already so crammed with the teams prepping for the next match, he can’t do more than clasp her arm as she passes. Should be safe, right? Not like he’s gonna lose control right here in front of everyone.

Oh, but it’s a close thing … these past few days of fretting and sleeping alone have left him stretched thin. The warmth of her so close, her familiar scent as she moves beside him, is enough to test his resolve. His eyes cloud with unspoken messages as she smiles faintly and disengages, easing through the crowd and up to command without a word. And damn it, he has to run this match and another five after it before he can go after her. He forces his mind back to business with an effort. _Let’s get this done_.

* * *

He makes it almost to the end of the second round before he crumbles, handing the comm to Jacob with a terse “You can take it from here.”, and heading to the door. He doesn’t miss the knowing grin that steals over the rookie’s face but he chooses to ignore it, walking faster and faster as he nears the bridge. By the time he swings through the hatch he’s almost jogging in his haste to catch up to her.

He can smell fresh coffee; that’s a good sign that she’s up here somewhere. Not in the galley, not in the sleeping space, not at the comm … where did she go? He corners without losing momentum and makes for the bomb shelter, only stopping when he reaches the open door and finally sees her seated at his workbench. Her attention is focused on a collection of items laid out in front of her; looks like shrapnel from a blast, twisted fragments of metal and rock all radiating a cold energy that he has no problem identifying.

“Found what you were lookin’ for?”, is all he says; she’s in work mode, evidently.

“I don’t know.”, she says slowly. “I had in mind to forge another weapon, like Jacob’s. But now I don’t know.”.

“No? Wouldn’t be hard to do. I can help, if you want”.

She frowns in indecision. “It’s just - the more I think about it, the more it feels like another gun isn’t the answer.”.

“Another gun never hurts.”, he objects firmly. She still seems unconvinced; he nudges the back of the chair so it swivels her to face him. “How ‘bout this; you’n’me go down to this little forge I know and get this done. You get somethin’ to fight the dark, I get some time alone with you. Can’t see a downside.”.

“Well, when you put it like that ...”, she murmurs. He brightens a little at the answering gleam in her eye.

* * *

His forethought in getting his people trained up is paying off already. Jacob is left in charge, the rest of the crew look to him for orders, and they all know what they’re doing - just for a little while he’s completely superfluous. It’s a good feeling, knowing everything’s in safe hands while they head down to the surface with a small crate of scrap steel and a few other more exotic ingredients. Add the makings of some camp meals - no way he wants to be venturing out to find food while they’re working - and they have everything they’ll need. He even found a moment to pocket that precious bottle of cider brandy she gifted him so long ago; perfect for a toast to the success of their endeavours … or commiserations if they fail, but he doesn’t think they will.

The forge they’re heading for is tucked in the back of a cave system so far miraculously undisturbed by either Fallen or Vex, and way off the usual paths taken by Guardians. Might have been an early forerunner of one of the Black Armory family businesses, judging by the quality of the gear and the top-tier security system. A heavy steel door efficiently closes off the small complex from the outside world, fitting snugly into the bare stone of the tunnel, and concealed ducts provide filtered fresh air from above. Whoever made this place obviously intended to work for long periods undisturbed by any troubles going on outside.

She looks around curiously as she steps through the vestibule; the original makers of this place evidently spared no effort to create a self-contained weapons workshop down here. Aside from the smelting pit there’s a brazier and anvil for forging blades, a bank of furnaces, and a large workbench pushed up against the wall. Half-finished weapons are still stacked in piles here and there, as if the original owner just stepped out for a break and will be back any moment to carry on.

She steps over to the workbench, noting the hand tools still laid out ready to use, before checking over the facilities and getting familiar with the various pieces of equipment. By the time he’s sealed the door and unpacked the crates she’s already running the crucible through its power-up sequence with a practiced air, and he stops to watch her.

“You know your way round one o’these.”, he comments, surprised. This is old tech, early Dark Age, not what he’d have expected her to have any experience with.

“My speckled past.”. She smiles reminiscently “This model is a lot like one I used to use, before ...”. She cuts off, leaving him wondering what she was about to say, but she firmly ends the moment by grasping the scrap crate and starting to sort through for the pieces she needs for the smelting. He leans against the wall in silence for a while until he can’t hold the question in any longer.

“Before what?”.

“Hm?”. She looks up with a faint frown, a handful of steel halfway to the smelting pile.

“You said you used to use one of these before. Before what?”.

Her mouth crimps in a resigned, self-irritated grimace. “Before I was Risen … there was a forge like this in one of the places I lived. A lot of it’s Eliksni tech, repurposed. We really are thieves, just like they call us.”. She sounds bitter - whose side was she on? He has a feeling he knows, but that’s not important right now.

“How come you remember? - the Traveller takes the memories, right? That’s the deal when you come back. How can you know?”.

“I rejected the deal.”. The words seem to come from a long way away, low and bitter, and her face twists. “You still resent being brought back, don't you … ? But the Traveller told you the terms, and you must have agreed. I said no. I told it I was _done_, that I’d had enough of gods whispering in my ear. I told it to look for another fucking hero. It ignored that and went ahead. Brought me back anyway. But I kept my memories.”.

He stands stock still, empty crate hanging forgotten in his hand. He doesn’t disbelieve it, not for a second. It all makes sense. But - for the Traveller to do that, to bring her back intact and entirely against her will, means … well, it means she’s in all likelihood genuinely the ‘chosen one’ he sarcastically named her long ago. No wonder the Nine can’t leave her alone. And the Hive. And the Vanguard - “… do the Vanguard know?” he demands.

“No.”. For a moment her face lights up with the familiar impish gleam, paracausal bullshit dismissed. “Ikora knows I’m permanently angry about something, but she doesn’t know precisely what. I prefer to keep it that way, if you don’t mind.”.

He can’t help but laugh, but his mind is ticking over frantically with what this means for him. For all his plans, laid long ago, and her likely role in the coming upheaval.

“Why’d ya tell me, then? You could’ve kept quiet, no-one would ever know.”.

For a second he thinks he’s said the wrong thing; she goes very still at the question, but then he sees the mischief in her eyes intensify. “Because you asked. Because you actually asked outright, instead of dancing around the question and dropping hints and playing power games. And because I think you need to know, before it all kicks off. Whatever games they’re playing with us, you’re at the centre of it, whether you like it or not.”.

“How d’you figure that?”.

“Because you’re still here. The Traveller could have dropped you centuries ago if it didn’t like the way you were playing the game. Your ghost would have left you behind and found another guardian if it got the instruction.”.

That chills him. He’s never trusted his ghost, not from day one, and poured scorn on those who treated their celestial spies as best buddies, but he’d never considered that it might have been sticking with him despite many likely better options. He waves that thought away for later.

“That’s a whole 'nother story. But you … you joined the Vanguard, you're a guardian, even though you didn’t want any part of it. Why?”.

There’s a long silence; he knows she won’t tell him everything, but he’s hoping for some part of the truth in this moment. Bitter memory slowly dissolves into mischief once more and her eyes gleam.

“I got bored.”.

“Hah! Yeah, that sounds like you. But I reckon there’s more to it. Right?”.

She nods slowly. “Right. The truth is, once I was back I needed resources, and I needed to find out what was going on. That was the quickest way. And once I got there - well, there was work to be done.”.

“So … you remember times before the Dark Age. Before the Collapse.”.

“Yes.”.

Oh, the questions he could ask … he settles for “What was it like?”.

She’s quiet for a long time before answering bleakly; “Not as great as everyone seems to think.”.

Everything she’s ever shied away from explaining, every one of the ‘reasons’ and ‘details’ she ever told him he didn't need, is encapsulated in that flat statement. He has enough sense to back away from that conversation immediately.

* * *

Last time he was here he was in a strange mood; slightly emotional, still grieving for Callum and the manner of his death even though it was all exactly as they’d planned, shaken by hearing that final exchange with his killer. It had worked in his favour though, dropping his defences enough to open up and be honest with the rookie, sharing far more of his knowledge than he would otherwise have done. It worked out. Deep down inside he firmly believes that’s why the weapon ended up so lethal, the hurt and the determination to end this whole dark chapter with the Shadows once and for all seeping into it somehow while it took shape.

Which means … if he’s going to reproduce that somehow for Sully, the revelation she just stunned him with was the perfect introduction. It's obvious she doesn’t want to make a big deal of it, but he’s still reeling from the implications. Whatever is happening here, whatever’s gone on between them in the past, it’s all meant to be somehow. He _hates_ being a pawn in this game, hates it with a passion, but clearly his wishes don’t enter into it. It is what it is.

So it’s with a fatalistic shrug that he skims the crucible, checking the temperature readings off the control panel and moving the mould into position. “Nearly ready.”, he calls quietly, and she moves up beside him. “Anythin’ else you want in the mix, add it now.”.

This is the part Jacob didn’t see happen last time; as she hands him three small objects he holds each one in turn, concentrating on letting some of his dark energy flow into it before he drops it into the molten steel. Each fragment disappears almost before it hits the surface, vaporised by the heat, but they’re in there. He knows they’re in there. A fragment of ghost core, picked up in Four Horn Gulch. A scorched splinter of amethyst and granite, part of a massive geode blown apart by the death of a Taken wizard. And a copper charm, barely the size of his fingertip, scored with two tiny Hive runes. He’d hesitated at that, knowing the reputation of these things, but she was adamant.

“You don’t even know what it means!”, he’d protested, but she stood firm.

“Yes I do. It goes in.”. And so the Pathway and the Agent are added to the mix, and he stirs it up one more time before beckoning her forward.

“Here goes nothin’. You need to stand here for a second.”.

Confused, she does so, letting him place her where he needs her to be. He stands behind her, snaking an arm around her waist and pulling her slowly back against him; braced and steady, letting her lean on him while he captures her hand and rests it on the crucible’s tilt handle. He nuzzles into her neck, feeling the texture of her skin and the fine hairs on the back of her neck against his cheek, the citrus/spice smell rising up from her, and lets the feelings overwhelm him. Just for now he needs to feel this, as strongly as he can. To feel the belonging, the affinity, the safety in her presence, the absolute certainty that right here and now their needs and their goals are completely in tune. The original prototype might have been forged in friendship, but this one is being forged in some kind of harmony, acceptance of the road they’re both on. All of this emotion he pours into the mould along with the bright flowing metal, gripping her hand under his as he turns the handle and tightening his arm around her. Who even knows what she’s feeling right now, but the way she relaxes in his grasp and follows his lead gives him hope. They’re building this one together for all the right reasons. It’ll work.

* * *

It’ll be a few hours before they can crack the mould and see what they’ve made. If he had his way he could have stood there indefinitely with her snuggled up against him, but that’s hardly practical - besides, holding her like that predictably nudged his libido awake. Not that he wouldn’t be up for fucking her up against the forge, burns hazard and all … but maybe a little conversation is in order first. No rush. He reluctantly loosens his grip on her, muttering something about checking the provisions, and turns aside to adjust his suddenly too-tight pants. Would it be too obvious if he started laying out the bedrolls already, he wonders? He laughs silently at his own impatience and goes to extract the bottle of brandy from the deep pocket of his coat.

When he returns she’s checking the thermostat on the cast, absorbed in her task, and he takes a moment to appreciate the view. If there was ever a goddess of engineers, bet they’d have made a statue to her just like this little tableau - stripped down to her vest in the heat of the forge, one arm lightly tensed as she leans against the control panel, and that solemn gaze resting critically on her handiwork. Pale as she is, she could almost be carved in classical marble already; all that’s missing is some cherubs hovering ready to hand her a wrench. He chuckles to himself as he comes up beside her.

“You hear that?”.

She doesn’t even look up, she’s so preoccupied. “Hear what?”.

“Exactly.”. He steps forward with a predatory swagger and backs her up against the panel. “I don’t hear anythin’. Must be time for a tune-up.”.

She leans back, mischief glinting in her eye.

“You know what?”, she breathes. “I think we might be looking at a manual restart.”.

“Oh really?”.

“Oh yes. Trust me, I’m an engineer.”.

His next smart quip dies on his lips when her hands go to his belt and unfasten his pants; cool hands wrap firmly around his cock as it springs free, stroking gently up and down. “Sometimes these older models need cranking by hand, you know?”.

"Hey …”, he protests, laughing. “Reckon you’ll find this ‘older model’ all cranked up and ready to go.”. That’s no lie; he’s rock hard already just from her nearness and the wicked laughter in her eyes. Does it to him every time. He pulls her close for a hungry kiss, rocking his hips urgently at her touch. _Damn_, that feels good … he rests his arms loosely around her neck, giving her free reign and trying not to thrust impatiently into her grip. In between kisses he’s breathing hard, breathless praise and faint groans dragged from him as she effortlessly brings him almost to the brink. Couple more seconds and he’s gonna make a mess - he gently stays her hand while he catches his breath. “Let’s get comfortable.”.

Okay, he should’ve laid out the bedrolls ready; but it only takes a few seconds to sort out and then he’s pulling her down next to him, fumbling with the buttons of her pants and sliding an eager hand inside. “You need a little cranking too?”, he teases, and she laughs.

“After watching you strut round this forge with your shirt off for the last hour? I don’t think so.”. She bucks her hips against his hand meaningfully, pulling him down for another kiss, and he chuckles against her lips as he feels how wet she is.

“Oh yeah, I’ve still got it.”, he crows, extracting his hand. He’s too old, he tells himself, too old and too nasty to be affected by that simple snippet of flattery - and yet he’s insensibly warmed by it. He grabs her waistband and starts inching her pants down. “Okay, let’s take a look under the hood …”.

As cranked as he is, as ready as she is, nevertheless he takes his time undressing her, pressing kisses to every inch of skin he uncovers. It feels so damn good to be getting naked with the warmth of the forge pressing in from every side … and even better when he finally sheds the last of his own clothes, falling back over her and feeling his skin brush deliciously against hers. Tangling together in their dim corner, the red glow of the brazier outlining their bodies against the shadows beyond, they rise and fall together in a gentle, deliberate rhythm, quiet moans and murmurs from both of them mingling with the hum of machinery and the occasional crackle from the coals. Maybe this is part of making the weapon, maybe it’s just two people starved of each other making the most of an opportunity. Whatever it is, everything feels right.

* * *

At long last the thing is done; the mould cracks cleanly along the seam and separates with barely a whisper, lifting away from the casting without resistance. He allows himself a moment of self-congratulation as the distinctive shape comes into view, and eases the pieces of the weapon out one by one to lay out on the workbench. She’s ready and waiting to assemble the firing mechanism, but he takes a minute to examine the finish on the barrel before handing it over. It looks very different to Jacob’s prototype, emerging with a delicate blue/green patina marbled across the dark steel. It’s a thing of beauty - half-treasure, half-threat - even in its unfinished state. She doesn’t waste time asking if it worked; she can see from here, from the reverent way he places each piece in front of her, that they’ve succeeded. She picks up her tools and gets to work instantly, and he steps away after a second to give her room to work in peace. Good time to put some coffee on, he reckons.

Ever efficient, by the time he places a steaming cup beside her she’s virtually finished the job. Scraps of leather litter the bench, pieces of a battered satchel she’d brought along; she’s sliced off the strap and used it to wind around the gun’s grip, and with that it's ready to use. She lifts the weapon and sights down the barrel to check the alignment, notching the hammer back and watching the cylinder turn. It’s done. And yet somehow, not _finished_ \- there’s something more it needs, he can’t figure out what.

The remains of the satchel are only fit for scraps and patches now; one of its corners was so damaged that the leather is tearing away from the red cord used to clumsily lash it back together in a previous repair. He pulls on the rough stitches, unravelling them so he can lay the pieces out flat and work out a use for them. Nothing springs to mind, and he sighs and starts gathering up all the scraps to drop back in the crate. The loosely-coiled cord rolls away and lands across the gun barrel, a scarlet spiral against the cool green metal, and he halts. _There it is_.

“You oughta tie that round the barrel.”, he comments. “It'd look good. Red’s lucky, too.”.

She doesn’t respond; the dubious look in her eye suggests she can live without ornamentation on her guns. But now the idea has seized him he’s more certain than ever that it’s necessary somehow. And then there’s the other thing he found in his pocket when he went to fetch the brandy, something he’s been carrying around for days without really knowing why. He hesitates for a second then lays the carved jade coin on the bench next to the end of the cord.

“Call me foolish ... but I reckon this is meant to go on there.”.

She examines the delicate carving carefully. After scraping back the botch he’d made of the original design he’s miraculously managed to tease out the Gambit icon in counter-relief, the sinuous outline of two snakes coiling around each other in impeccable detail. Considering it was mostly carved in bitterness and frustration, it’s turned out to be one of the best things he’s ever done. And it’s hers. No doubt in his mind now.

“You made this.”. She sounds stunned.

“Yeah, while you were away. Every time I started missin’ you I added another scale.”.

She laughs at that; there are upwards of a hundred scales in the intricate design. “I see. Well, that probably means something.”. She lifts the cord and unwinds the coil to measure off what she needs, then halts suddenly. “You know what red strings signify, right?”.

Mystified, he shakes his head. “Good fortune …?”, he ventures.

She doesn’t answer immediately, but there’s a half-smile lurking on her lips as she concentrates on stringing the coin and knotting it securely on the cord wrapped around the barrel, finally looking up at him with a curious gleam in her eye.

“Yes, I think so.”.


	42. Tools Of The Trade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Darkness is taking its time getting to the point; and in the meantime life goes on. There's Gambit to play, motes to stockpile, and inventory to manage - and while Drifter's keeping busy he's making sure to keep the hero busy too. Wouldn't want her getting bored and running off looking for a fight elsewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a smart reader observed, Drifter was made to be pegged. So here you go.

They say the Darkness is getting stronger. Getting closer, or increasing its reach, or maybe both. They say people on the moon have been driven mad by its whispering. They say (a safely anonymous ‘they', whoever the hell they are) that nightmare apparitions are showing up in places they have no business being, even in the lost sectors here on Nessus. Rumour or not, that’s way too close for Drifter's liking - he's beginning to wonder if he should just skip the system now, while he has most of his people safely aboard.

He’s managed to talk himself out of it so far. He tells himself he quite likes the comfortable rhythm he's fallen into - running Gambit, managing the crew, doing a few side deals, all with half an eye on news feeds from around the system just in case. He reckons they can be ready and out of here at an hour’s notice, tops, so there’s no harm in keeping things running just a little longer. Always good to have more motes in the bank, right?

But the truth is, if he lets himself think about it, is he’s afraid. Afraid if he gives the order to pull out she’ll elect to stay behind and go back to the Vanguard. He can’t put his finger on it, but there’s an indefinable sense of readiness about her, of anticipation - as if she’s holding herself poised to answer the call when it comes. He thinks back to a time when his only ambition was to own her whole, to have her come running if he so much as crooked his finger … these days he’ll think himself fortunate if she just elects to stay from one day to the next.

But for now, this is fine. Better than fine. With her help, things are running smoother than ever - he’s long since stopped marvelling at her eclectic collection of skills and instead started passing her things to fix that he never could get round to, or in some cases honestly didn’t know how. Yesterday it was a jammed artillery cannon wrenched off a Fallen skiff a century or two ago, today it’s a delicate sensor array he thought was smashed beyond recovery, scheduled to be broken down for scrap whenever he could get around to it. Out of pure curiosity he puts in front of her while she’s finishing her morning coffee, off-handedly commenting “Don’t suppose you can do anythin’ with this, before I throw it away.”.

She frowns sleepily at the mess of fractured silicates and exposed circuitry. “Depends. Do you need it for something? Like, fully functional?”.

“Well …”. He stands back, scratching his beard while he thinks. “I guess if you could get it workin’ I could find a buyer. Spider might want it. Otherwise, just break it down for parts.”.

“Mmm.”. She’s not even looking at him; her engineer’s instincts have kicked in just like that. “Possibly.”.

Which possibility, she doesn’t say.

* * *

He heads off to set up the first match and comes straight back, leaving Jacob in charge - it’s a golden opportunity to just watch her work and observe how she does whatever it is she does, with no other ulterior motive. In the few minutes he’s been gone she's already managed to remove the unit’s damaged cover and started picking the remaining splinters out of the innards with fine-point tweezers. A battered canvas tool roll is spread out at her elbow and periodically she switches implements, replacing one before extracting the next. Peering over her shoulder he can see a mismatched array of small hand tools, well-used, obviously collected over some length of time; pliers, wire cutters, screwdrivers, files, all the things you’d expect a tech to carry.

Tucked in the very end loop of the roll is something unexpected though, something that shines like real silver - he pulls it out for a closer look and smiles in honest fascination. It’s a genuine antique, a tapering cylinder chased with intricate scrollwork patterns, with a knurled wheel at the top that turns to advance a sliver of graphite from the other end. A propelling pencil - who even carries those, these days? He stares at the artefact for a long time, balancing its weight on his finger and wondering what it means to her. It’s pretty, sure, but that’s surely not the reason she keeps it. And who writes things down, when they have a ghost to record everything they need?

She stops work to watch him, smiling faintly at his reaction.

“Haven’t seen one o’these in a long, long time.”, he remarks apologetically, tucking it carefully back in its place. “Where’d ya get it?”.

Her smile broadens. “Looted a museum. That’s where all the good stuff is.”. She turns back to her work and frowns in thought. “Do me a favour, grab the bag out of my pack?”. She gestures behind her, and he obediently reaches down and extracts what looks like a washbag with a zip.

“This one?”.

She looks up briefly, distracted, and her eyes gleam with mischief. “Ah, no, not that one. Sorry. There should be another one.”.

He digs again and comes up with a small leather bag with a drawstring.

“That’s the one. Thanks.”. She takes it from him and starts digging through it, but the ghost of that wicked smile still lingers on her face.

“Don't need this one, then?”. He hefts the washbag in his hand, watching her suspiciously.

“Not right now. Maybe later.”.

No doubt about it, there’s a laugh in her voice - he fixes her with a look and drops the bag back on top of her pack. He won’t be baited; he’ll find out what that’s all about later.

Through the day he checks back on her, keeping her supplied with fresh coffee and reminding her periodically to eat something. He wasn’t wrong about seeing her at work - it’s somewhere between a masterclass and a magic show. One by one tiny components are removed, tested, tweaked, replaced, connections cleaned and wires straightened; scorched circuit tracks are relaid by her obliging ghost, depositing a film of gold along the lines she traces with that antique pencil. Aside from the shattered cover, she might just have the thing back in working order before the end of the day. Maybe when the war is over - if the war is ever over - he should open a repair shop, he muses. And a bar. Yeah, a bar with a repair shop out back.

As fantasy futures go, it’s almost believable.

* * *

It’s right at the end of the day before he remembers the mysterious bag again; she starts repacking her gear after tidying up her tools, and holds it out to him with a wicked gleam in her eye. “I’ve been meaning to unpack this. See if anything takes your fancy.”.

Cautiously he takes the bag and looks inside - and a lopsided smile spreads across his face. It’s full of silicone shapes, smooth and gnarled and stippled, rings and plugs and _whoa now_ is that a strap-on at the bottom? He meets her gaze and grins.

“Well, I dunno - maybe we should just try ‘em all out.'.

* * *

“Does that feel good?”.

“Yeah.”.

“And that?”.

“Oh _fuck_ yeah …”.

He’s been lying perfectly, obediently still for what feels like hours but is probably only a few minutes, just idling on his back with his legs drawn up while she teases him in preparation. His cock is so hard already it’s leaking, bobbing impatiently against his stomach at the touch of her cool fingers, slick with lube, probing his rim and sliding inside him.

“Ain’t gonna last two seconds if you don’t stop teasin’.”, he complains, and she lines up and leans over him, brushing her lips against his in an almost-kiss.

“I know …”, she murmurs against his mouth, and he groans. She’s enjoying this. Well, it’s probably his own fault for begging for the strap; these things need prep if everyone’s gonna have a good time - but dammit, he’s beyond ready.

He wraps his arms around her and pulls her greedily closer. He wants it all, right now. Not like his hole hasn’t seen plenty of action over the years, anyway; once upon a time he’d be ready and up for this with any one of the dozen handsome youngsters coming in and out of his bar, easy pickings for someone high in appetite and low in attachment looking for a good time to round off the night. But for all those experiences he can’t remember the last time he felt this goddam _full_ \- stretched to his limit, almost stinging with the pressure and _oh fuck_ the way it nudges the sweet spot just right - and he certainly doesn’t recall ever feeling quite so relaxed about being flat on his back and at someone else’s mercy. But this is different. This is _her_. She can top him anytime.

Every part of him is tingling, waves of ice and fire shuddering down his body and back up again every time she moves. As for her, she’s breathless and trembling, a thin sheen of sweat covering her body as she arches her back and rides him hard. She’s curated her collection of toys with the same care as her tools; this isn’t just some insensate lump of silicone, it’s a sophisticated prothesis that fits into her perfectly, teasing her clit with every stroke. He doesn’t even want to know where she must have looted to get her hands on it, he just knows it’s perfect. He grips her tight, trying to take her in whole and stuttering half-formed words, unable to get to the end of a sentence before she pounds into him again and the sheer bliss shuts off his speech centres. His joyful groans get sharper, louder, and she wraps her hand around his cock, trapped between their slick bodies.

“You want to cum like this?”.

“_Fuck_ ye - … _please_ …”. He curls around her, desperately seeking contact at every possible point; she ducks her head and bites down on his shoulder with a muffled moan as she comes, and at that _oh shit shit SHIT there it is_ he’s exploding helplessly, stuttering, rigid, gasping and clutching at her skin. His cock leaps eagerly in her hand, spilling his load in thick creamy spurts over her fingers and up on to his chest.

She collapses over him and turns her head to murmur breathlessly against his ear.

“Good?”.

He tries to laugh, _of course it was good, look at the state of me_, but all he can manage is a helpless wheeze.

She slumps down beside him with a satisfied grin, raking her damp hair out of her face before reaching for a cloth to clean them both up. ““I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”.


	43. Morning Devotions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Devotion, n.  
1\. religious fervor or piety, 2. an act of prayer or private worship usually used in plural i.e. during his morning devotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're all holding up ok - seems we're living in 'interesting times' :(
> 
> I hope a little bit of horny morning Drifter with a side of shower sex will go some way towards cheering you all up.

Early-morning quiet blankets the Derelict’s command deck; Nessus sunlight floods the bridge, a red-gold tide almost audible in the stillness. It’s a sight made to be appreciated, but if he hadn’t been roused out of bed by nature’s urgent call he’d still have been sleeping through it. He spares it a cursory glance as he goes by; there’s an even better view to be had back in the crawlspace, namely one silver guardian curled up in the nest of pillows sleeping off last night’s exertion. If he had his way he'd still be wrapped around her, but needs must.

And speaking of last night … as he positions himself in front of the can his first full-body stretch sets off a chain reaction, tender spots protesting the pounding he took last night - but there’s a satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his mouth nonetheless. _Totally worth it_. It wouldn’t be good to have it that rough every night, a body needs time to recover - the bite mark on his shoulder chooses that moment to announce its presence, case in point - but once in a while is a treat.

He taps the gauge above his head to see if there’s enough water coming through the recycler for a hot shower; looks like there ought to be enough if he can get in there before everyone else starts appearing. It’s past time he put in some facilities on the deck below, besides the basic toilet cubicles and hand basins that came with the prefab cabin units - well, that’s a task for another day. For now he has more immediate concerns. With his bladder finally drained he sighs in satisfaction and ponders his options. Coffee’d be a good start. Yeah. Coffee first.

But just as he’s setting out the cups there are footsteps behind him, and Raven’s yawning face appears around the partition, She stops dead as she sees him; he congratulates himself on at least remembering to put on pants before he came out here, but by the look on her face maybe he should have put a shirt on as well. Her mouth is half open as if she was about to greet him, but her widening eyes are fixed on the mess of scars on his torso. It's been so long since anyone else other than Sully was in a position to see them, he’d forgotten what most people's reaction was … and the cold anger it sparked in him. She looks horrified, faintly repulsed even, and his face hardens instantly.

“Yeah kid, take a good look. This is what happens when ya tangle with the Vex.”.

She freezes at the furious hurt in his voice and backs away, stammering the beginnings of an apology. She doesn’t get more than a few steps before she’s brought up short by the sight of Sully emerging from the crawlspace, roused by the hope of coffee - Raven's flicker of relief is swiftly crushed as she sees the titan is completely naked, strolling across the deck towards her as unselfconsciously as if they were patrolling the EDZ. The bruises he left on her last night, from urgent fingertips digging into her flank, are very obvious as she comes towards the hunter and waves a sleepy greeting.

Raven freezes, trying to work out where to look - where not to look - what not to say - eventually her brain gives up on waiting for cognition and engages autopilot; her feet are already moving as she stammers “Yeah, hi - er - I just need to, um …”, and she bolts for the door at speed. It’s too early for this.

To Drifter's credit he manages not to laugh out loud at the hunter’s panicked exit - but damn, it’s a close thing. He pours the fresh brew and hands one to Sully, wrapping her sleep-numbed hands around the cup and resolutely damping the grin that keeps quirking the corners of his mouth.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the distraction tactic but, uh, maybe put some clothes on next time?”.

She stares innocently at the ceiling and takes a thoughtful swig of her coffee. “Maybe. How long do you reckon before anyone’s brave enough to come back up here?”.

There’s a glint of knowing challenge in her eye as she drains her cup and heads to the shower.

He steps smoothly in front of her.

“Yeah, y’know … there ain’t much water. Maybe we oughta share.”.

* * *

Okay, he’ll admit that was a cheesy line - but sometimes the reason things are overused is because they _work_, dammit. By the time he skins out of his pants and joins her she’s leaning against the tiled wall with her face upturned to the stream of water, eyes closed in silent bliss at the pressure of the water jets on her face and shoulders. For once she doesn’t look like a statue, stock-still though she is; more like a sprite emerging from a waterfall, all silver sheen and sparkling droplets. His cock applauds the sight with a rapid standing ovation, twitching impatiently when he stands for a moment to fix the image in his head. He tests out more cheesy lines in his head - _want me to scrub your back? time to work up a lather?_ \- and rejects them all unsaid, opting for silence and breathing deeply as he comes up beside her. Despite his rising tension his hands are cautious, almost reverent, as he reaches for her and gathers her in. He’s in the mood for some gentleness right now.

Seems she’s feeling the same; all the morning’s pain and hurt is quickly forgotten - even Raven’s unfortunate reaction to his scars washed away by this moment, by Sully's hands trailing over his chest, acknowledging every slash and burn like a wanderer tracing the path home. Not for the first time he wonders how he managed to get to this point, of finding someone who takes him as he is - someone who appreciates him whole. Maybe the universe really is trying to make amends. _It’s about goddam time_.

He lifts her easily up against the tiles and buries himself in her, murmuring breathless nothings in her ear. Steam swirls around them, heated water pounds down on his back, the mix of sensations easing the last lingering tenderness from last night and lifting him up on a rising tide of helpless bliss. Just the joy of it, the sheer devilment of it, of getting away with this on a ship full of people who could walk in at any moment - it’s enough to make him momentarily euphoric, shuddering happily with every stroke. He tries to slow, to manage the pace, but it just feels too damn good …

There’s too much steam in the air for talking, too much noise from the water streaming down and splashing on the floor, gurgling away down the recycler inlet; but they’re communicating nonetheless, faint murmurs of affirmation felt rather than heard, hands sliding on flesh and grasping for purchase. Half-formed words melt into kisses, and back into words again as they come together over and over. He's all too soon teetering in the edge, struggling to hold back, shivering urgently against her. “Fuck, m’so close -”, he groans against her lips, bracing to halt if need be. "- can't hold on ...".

He has his answer when she pulls him in tight, locking her legs behind his back and tangling her fingers in his soaked hair. “Keep going …”, she urges, a rising whine as she tilts her head back. “ …fuck _yes_, keep going, I'm there, I'm - “; and then there are no more words, just muffled cries buried in his shoulder as he pounds her hard - he swears the tiles must be cracking behind her but he doesn’t care, he’s too focused on keeping his footing and holding her in place and _ah shit_ the feel of her sliding against him, skin slick with the rivulets running off his shoulders and down between them, the feel of her taking him and clenching around him and _it’s too much_ it’s much too much - oh it’s just right - it’s _oh fuck it’s - here it is - yeah - right there_ \- with his face screwed up, the effort of keeping his balance and keeping her up there and _oh fuck_ \- he grinds out one final muffled “Oh _fuck_ yeah -“ and drives up deep inside her one last time, chest heaving, taking in lungfuls of the steamy air. Maybe that’s the reason he’s momentarily lightheaded, maybe not. Who cares. He’s wrapped in her, sheathed in her, soaking her up as she trembles against him.

He doesn’t want to move; he could stand here all day with the warmth of the water on his back and his girl wrapped around him, all damn day. But the shower chooses that moment to start running colder, a sure sign they’ve exhausted the supply. Regretfully he disengages, steadying her as her feet touch the floor again.

“See? Just enough for one.”, he murmurs with a spark of mischief in his eye. “Good thing we shared, huh.”.


	44. Faith, Trust and Pixie Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "To die would be an awfully big adventure." - Peter Pan
> 
> The Hive are fighting back against the Vanguard's countermeasures, and Sully takes on an emergency mission.

Exhibit A: a dead ghost core - winkled out of its shell like this, silent and inert, it doesn’t look like something that once held a personality, a forceful mind, much less the magic it was once capable of. It looks no more significant than a dusty marble retrieved from under the sofa, something you’d never think to miss or go looking for if you did; some mundane machine part, maybe - something you’d toss in the junk drawer and dig out months later, asking yourself why the hell you were keeping it, and what was it even for in the first place. Only the hairline seams, the delicate tracery of curves echoing the construction of the Traveller's inner shell, hint at its origin.

<Ugh … I wish you’d put that away.>

_in a minute_   
_i think we can use this_

<That’s just nasty. How would you like it if I dragged a guardian’s corpse around in front of you?>

_you drag my corpse around every day, if you think about it_

<What …? I do _not_ think about it, thank you very much. Why are you like this?>

_beats me_   
_do we still have your old shell?_

* * *

Drifter’s beginning to wonder if the Darkness is ever going to make its move; after all that excitement on the Moon it seems to have settled down again, not that he ought to be complaining. But the more time passes without new crises, the more he wonders if maybe he was overreacting before. And he’s definitely starting to feel the familiar itch to shake it up a bit, scrap the routine and go somewhere, do something different. He’s got everything he needs now, after all - he’s just killing time from this point on.

One thing never gets old, though; waking up next to her. That part of the routine can stay fixed just as it is forever as far as he’s concerned. The faint glow from her Awoken skin, the sound of her even breathing in the dark, the scent of her rising up as he shifts closer to her and the way her hair tickles his nose when he bends his head to breathe her in … he can’t remember, can’t even imagine how it is to wake up any other way. Deep down he knows the day's coming when she has to be somewhere else, but not today. Today everything is just right.

She’s never more delicious than first thing after waking, soft and rumpled and - vulnerable somehow, though he can’t put his finger on why. Maybe just because she actually sleeps here next to him, sleeps through the night and wakes with a slow surfacing, faint smiles and welcoming murmurs; no guarded stare, no vigilance, like she can finally let her barriers down for a little while.

She mumbles a protest at his restlessness, and burrows determinedly into the warm hollow their bodies made in the nest of pillows. He stifles a silent laugh at her grouching and slides an arm under her, wrapping her up with arms and legs and pulling her close in to him. There’s a busy day ahead, the usual schedule of matches to run and then the transfer to Titan to prep for, and he’ll be damned if he starts the day without a little quality time. His internal clock tells him they've got a little while before they need to stir, long enough to fool around if they were both up for it, but strangely he's not feeling it this morning. Well obviously, if she were in the mood to start something he'd be happy to oblige, but ... right now this is all he needs.

* * *

The day fills up as anticipated, not a spare moment for anyone, and by the end of it he's keen to get on the move. There are a few mop-up jobs to be done first, though - cleaning the arena, for one, and dispatching half the crew for a sweep of the nearby valley for more datalattice. Word is it’s fetching premium prices right now, so with any luck he’ll be able to shift it via Bern’s pension plan - along with some other gear he doesn’t foresee a use for - and at the same time he can see if Noush has any more reliable intel on this whole nightmare situation. If anyone can pick up a hint of what's causing it, it’s the junior genius. Gotta love it when everything slots into place like that.

The short hop to Titan takes no time at all, and as soon as they make orbit he's readying the crates to transmat down. The warehouse is in the same state of competent bustle as before, and he swings straight up to the office to negotiate a deal with Bern. It takes a while to get to a price he’s happy with, knowing what he knows about local market forces, but eventually he’s satisfied with the offer and signals Asa to start bringing the crates in from the landing pad. Sully seems to have wandered off, and he frowns as he searches the aisles for her … what’s she up to now? Should’ve known better than to leave her unsupervised in an engineer’s treasure trove like this one. Odds are she’s about to fall foul of Noush’s territorial instincts.

But when he finally tracks her down she’s deep in animated conversation with the comms tech, silver head and dark both bent over a datapad. He feels a twinge of irrational jealousy as he comes closer and registers the excitement in Noush’s voice. He likes to think he’s built up a good understanding with the kid, something very few people can say, and as much as he acknowledges Sully’s gift for making friends he’d almost hoped she might need him to smooth the way just for once. He's taken aback by how much that bothers him - not like he didn't know already, he needs her more than she needs him. Still - it stings to be reminded.

As he gets closer he picks up snippets of the conversation - transforms and dipoles, harmonics and antinodes - in-depth technical stuff, of course. No surprises there. They’re so absorbed by it they don’t register him standing off to the side until he pointedly announces himself.

“You all talkin’ secrets over there?”.

They both look over, and the warming of Sully's face at the sight of him overrides his black mood instantly. Maybe she doesn't need him, but as long as that's how she looks at him he'll count himself lucky.

“Yep, Trade secrets.”, Sully answers. “Noush has been talking me through the suppression waveform he set up to combat the Hive song. I haven’t seen anything this elegant since …well, for a very long time.”.

Noush can’t possibly know what high praise that is, coming from someone who remembers the Golden Age of humanity, but he seems well satisfied nonetheless. Ah well, if they’re bonding over high-level engineering, who is he to complain? He can’t resist a jab though.

“I oughta strike a new Gambit medal - ’Get on the right side of Noush.’.”.

He grins to show it’s a friendly jibe, and Noush rolls his eyes.

“That’ll be a limited run.”. He makes brief eye contact with Sully and smiles reluctantly. “But this one can come again any time.”. He turns and walks off to pick up his interrupted tasks, and Drifter watches him go in bemusement.

"Damn ... I knew you'd got the gift, but I've never seen that kid take to someone so fast. How'd you do that?".

She shrugs one shoulder casually. "Shared interests. Quickest way to an engineer's heart.".

"Oh yeah? I seem to recall one time you told me it was, uh, whimsy ...?".

He backs her gently up against the shelving and smirks at her. She grins at the manoeuvre and allows him one kiss before extracting herself. "I'm a special case.", she tosses over her shoulder, and heads out to help Asa with the crates.

_That you are_, Drifter silently agrees.

* * *

When he comes to look back on that day, he should have known it was all going too well. Motes rolling in; storage crammed with gear looted from fallen hostiles, and guardians signing up by the dozen for future matches despite the anticipated grumbling about the repetitive map rotation - everything running like clockwork.

Mid-way through the second day of the rotation, it all turns upside down. Just as one team begins the battle with their primeval, their opposition still mopping up motes from a room full of Hive who didn’t move fast enough, there’s a sudden shockwave that echoes across clear from the Arcology and takes out all major systems on the rig. His console feed starts to fill with urgent green-screen lines of text from his intercepts, status updates from techs in the field and Sloane’s command centre systems reporting failure after failure. Without a second thought he hits the recall switch, bringing the teams out of the arena and dumping them back in the ready room amid confused shouts and a couple of sprays of bullets before they realise where they are. Never mind, that'll buff out.

“Technical hitch; problems on the rig.”, he announces smoothly, projecting a calm he’s far from feeling while his fingers fly over the keyboard looking for answers. 

But there are none; everything is down. Bern and Noush are unreachable, command comms have been switched to an emergency channel he can’t access for now, and the only information he has is his console’s steady scrolling, letting him know what’s not working. Which, it would appear, is pretty much everything right now.

Frustrated, he turns to stare at the crew; he gets a row of blank faces in return. Might be nice if somebody would show a little initiative … but Jacob is in the ready room handling the recalled Gambit teams, and Sully - where the hell is Sully? - he’d swear she was right here a minute ago, tinkering with something at the mess table or reading a datapad or something, and now she’s nowhere to be seen. He’s about to yell for her when she emerges from the crawlspace, buckling on her armoured chestplate.

“Sloane has an urgent problem in the arcology. Looks like the Hive have knocked out the signal suppressors and caused a feedback loop that took out all the comms across both rigs.”.

“Great. That’s just _great_.”. He slams both hands down on the control panel in frustration. “How long before it’s fixed?”.

She shrugs and shoulders her pack. “Ask me again once I get down there and see what needs doing.”.

_Ah, fuck_. Yeah, of _course_ she’s going down there to save the day. What else did he expect? He swallows the bitter words fighting to be released - she’s halfway to the door with no intention of stopping to argue. Whatever he wants to say to her about leaping to answer the Vanguard’s call like that, it can wait until she gets back.

“Fine. Be careful.”, he snaps, grimacing as he turns back to the console.

* * *

<Maybe you should have told him what you’re planning.>

_maybe_

<Seriously. You should have told him.>

_and how do you think he’d react?_

<Hopefully, by talking you out of it - since I can’t seem to.>

_no_   
_because this needs to be done_

<Yes, but - what if it goes wrong?>

_there is no ‘wrong' for it to go_   
_whatever happens, we learn something_   
_just remember to stay well back_   
_i’m not risking you as well_

<I’m supposed to just sit back and watch? Guardian …!?>

_yes_   
_you know what to do_

* * *

Down in the command centre Sloane is pacing the deck at speed, barking orders through hastily spun-up backup systems as she tries to get a handle on the situation;

“Tech teams One through Five - restore backup comms at your emergency stations.". A crackle as those orders are acknowledged. "Holliday - we need you in the air, sitrep on the double." A cheerful, rapidly fading 'On it!' as the mechanic complies. Competent people who don't need handholding, priceless. Now, what's next ... ah yes. "All available fireteams, I want you on patrol and shutting down any Hive ritual activity you find - “ …

“Reporting for duty, commander. What do you need?”.

At the sound of the familiar ghost’s voice she spins in place and jabs a commanding finger at the titan. “… oh, thank god - _you_, get into that Arcology and remind those Hive whose rig this is, got it? I don’t know what they did down there, but if anyone knows how to fix it it’s you. And … be careful in there, okay?”.

The ghost interjects fussily. “They’re never careful. I don’t think they even know what that means. Commander - who else is available to go in there? We’ll need some covering fire while we fix the damage.”.

Sloane nods and raises her wristcom again. “I need three fireteams at the entrance to the Arcology in two minutes. Who’s free?”. A garbled voice responds, something in the affirmative; she nods decisively and continues relaying orders as she gives Sully the ‘go’ signal. “Good. Meet my operative there and do whatever they tell you to do. Get moving!”.

* * *

Armoured boots ring out on the decking as the fireteams advance; their leader, an unassuming middle-aged woman in titan armour, finds herself wondering exactly how she ended up at the front. There was no discussion, there wasn't time ... and she’s no more experienced or time-served than anyone else here, and guardians don’t do rank as such, so why …? Perhaps it’s because she was the first to cock her weapon and follow this nondescript Awoken manling - who apparently is Sloane’s secret weapon against any Hive messing with her comms, as uninspiring as they seem right now. She grimly recalls her old instructor's golden rule during basic training - 'Never volunteer, Mim.'. _Well, I failed that one already_. She sighs and checks the next corner before advancing. Nothing else to do but follow this one and see where they end up.

The deeper into the Arcology they go, the more unsettled the hastily assembled squad becomes. Always faintly haunting, the abandoned parks and corridors feel eerie, on the edge of threatening, despite the lack of hostiles so far. They fan out and cover corners, inching around every twist and bend in the path ready for any ambush, but there’s nothing. The usual packs of thralls, the small scavenging groups of Fallen, all seem to have melted away.

Except … on the edge of hearing, there’s a faint sound. A hum, a whisper, a breath, nothing at all, then a whisper again - whichever way they turn it always seems to be just around the next corner, never getting closer, never getting further away. These are all battle-hardened veterans, no strangers to Hive tricks, but they’re casting alarmed glances back over their shoulders every few seconds, fighting the creeping feeling of imminent attack. Only Sully seems unaffected, walking along at their usual easy pace without even a weapon drawn. Mim is ready to hiss at them to arm themselves, be ready, when she catches a glimpse of solar light curling across their palms. _It’s okay_, she tells herself sternly. _It’s okay. Nothing down here we haven’t faced before. It’s just Hive and their blasted songs_. But she looks back over her shoulder nonetheless.

After ten minutes or so cautiously advancing, ready for anything, they’re within sight of Noush’s suppressor array when Sully holds up a hand to halt them. Their ghost appears and swings from them to the squad, then back again as it receives their instructions.

“My guardian needs to get over there and remove whatever's jamming the suppressor. The Hive will probably break cover and try to defend it. Hold your position and give them cover for as long as you can.”.

Mim hesitates, feeling far from ready. “It’s going to be bad, isn’t it.”.

It’s not a question; the silver titan turns and gives her a rueful half-smile, setting down their pack and extracting a tool roll. “It’s always bad.”.

Their soft voice hangs on the air for a second as she digests this - that flat statement is almost calming, if far from reassuring. But it _is_ always bad, and they always come through. Mostly, anyway. Most of them. She relentlessly disregards the unproductive tangent. Regardless of the bigger picture, whatever the hell that may be, this is just another mission. They’ve done this hundreds of times.

Sully straightens up and looks along the line of grim, anxious faces, ending with Mim. “Just do what you can, and get out alive. Sloane will need your reports.”.

She doesn’t have time to ask what that means before Sully steps over to the suppressor with one fiery fist already raised, and the undergrowth explodes with screaming thralls.

“Squad, on me!”, she yells, and trains her sidearm on the nearest hostile skull.

* * *

Oh, but these guardians are _good_ at what they do. Crossfire from scout rifles takes care of the acolytes trying to sneak over from the far corner of the atrium; one stoic hunter with a shotgun slides across and encourages a knight to - briefly - reconsider its options as it tries to flank the suppressor array and bring its sword down on Sully’s head; and through it all there’s a hail of energy bolts shredding anything that gets within a few feet of the grim-faced hero methodically reconnecting the amplifier and its defences. Periodically they raise a free hand and toss down a line of thermite grenade or renew their barricade, glancing around to read the situation before focusing back on their task. Mim is rapidly reworking her assessment of Sully, doing whatever technical thing they're doing under these conditions. They don’t seem to have encountered anything they can’t deal with yet. Surely if they continue at this rate they’ll win through, _surely_ …

But the Hive are fighting back with everything they have; whatever they’ve done down here, they clearly have instructions to defend it with their lives. After the thralls come acolytes, shredders blazing. Swordbearers advance, singly at first then in twos and threes, trying to separate the squad into smaller groups and pick them off. Wizards hover just out of range, reinforcing each other in a net of dark magic. And the faint Hive song, drowned out until now by the din of full-scale combat, starts to be audible again - a whisper louder than a shout, rising even over the snarls and the bullets and the screams, fuzzing the edges of sight and hearing and slowing the squad’s reflexes. Its getting hard to see, to hear, to concentrate …

At the centre of the web Sully blinks at the last handful of connections, trying to keep the correct pattern of wires in mind before the song wipes the image away, ruthlessly suppressing the urge to do these last crucial elements in haste. This has to be right, or there’s no point doing it at all. They grin faintly to themselves at the vision of Noush’s outraged reaction if they were to mess it up now.

Mim sags against a wall, reloading her rifle and shielding her ghost while she rezzes her second. They can’t hold out much longer; if Sloane’s star operative doesn’t get their ass in gear and get this done in the next thirty seconds she’s pulling them out and waiting for backup. She glances across to assess the titan’s progress.

“Are we done yet?”, she barks across the way. Her voice is lost in the whispers, but Sully somehow miraculously hears and looks up still with that faint smile. One hand comes up as if they’re about to pull a rabbit from a hat, and they pinch the last two connector blocks together with a flourish. And ... silence. Pure empty silence, the absolute absence of noise, explodes from the centre and weaves its way through the song, choking it to nothing. The wizards scream in fury as their spells are baffled at source, and the waves of foot soldiers cower and start to creep backwards. It’s done.

Mim exhales a long breath, an incredulous smile tugging her lips. No wonder Sloane sent this one in. They’re not even sweating, damn them - cool as a cucumber. Unbelievable. She rapidly takes stock, gauging everyone’s position and status and calculating their line of retreat.

“Okay, people, time to go. Move it!”.

* * *

Deep in the Abyss, Eris Morn starts as the Darkness orb on her altar rocks faintly for a second before settling back. She stares at it suspiciously for several minutes, but it doesn't move again.

* * *

High above the Divalian mists, a Techeun hisses in alarm at a shadow flitting across the Oracle engine. It’s gone before she can call one of the others to see it.

* * *

Up on the Derelict, Drifter pushes back from his useless console with an furious oath and goes to put some coffee on. If they all have to sit here and stare at each other, might as well have a fresh brew to hand. And after that, if there’s still no word, maybe he should go down there and see what’s what. Better than sitting here.

Before he reaches the galley there's a flickering at the edges of his vision, blue/black shadows thickening in the corners of the room and seeping across the floor - _oh hell no, not again. _He snaps at his ghost, panicked.

“Find Sully, _now_. Open a channel.”.

It’s done almost before he finishes the sentence, and he doesn’t waste time with niceties.

“Somethin' ain't right. Need you back here.”.

The shadows are spreading, and he can't hear anything on the other end except a faint buzz. He lays a hand on his gun and opens his mouth to try again - then her voice weaves faintly through the static.

“Soon.”.

He knows that tone; it’s the faint, distracted voice she gets when she’s preoccupied with some gadget she’s trying to fix.

“There's no time. Get back here!”.

“Nearly done.”. Dammit, he can hear her smiling. “I need to finish the job.”.

His heart twists with fear. She’s too far away, and he knows somehow that she's about to do something stupid, or heroic, or both.

“Don’t.”. How did his voice get so small? It’s half a sob, forced out against the tension in his jaw. “Whatever you’re gonna do, just - don’t. It ain’t worth it.”.

“Yes it is. You have to trust me.”.

“_No_ _\- !"_, he shouts - but it’s too late. The connection drops … and in that second everything comes back. The comms crackle to life, his console display lights up with his usual message streams, the shadows curl back in on themselves and melt away to nothing … everything is back to how it should be.

Almost everything.

* * *

_“How? How did this happen?”._

Sloane’s voice is harsh, raw with pain and disbelief, totally devoid of her usual sardonic edge. Still standing to desperate attention in front of her, Mim takes another deep breath and continues her report.

“We - we were done. They were done. The suppressor was back online. We were okay. We had a clear exit and a window to use it. I mustered the squad, I shouted to your operative, and they - “. She breaks off, hesitant, still not believing it herself. “They picked up something from the base of the array and started fiddling with it. I shouted at them to move, and they - they just waved at me to carry on. I couldn’t get to them. I couldn’t make them come with me.”

“So you just _left them_?!”.

She flinches at the fury in the commander’s voice, but squares her shoulders and fixes her gaze on a point somewhere above her head before she continues.

“They were very clear - ‘get out alive and report’, they said. They’re … you know, they're not an easy person to say ‘no’ to. And the squad is my responsibility - so I did what they asked. I got out, I got my squad out, and we’re alive to tell you what happened.”.

“_What happened_ … is you left a guardian behind !- oh, I know all about how persuasive they can be, don’t worry. Not to mention headstrong ... but you left them! I can’t … Is there any chance they’re still alive?”.

Mim’s shoulders sag; that’s the one question she was dreading.

“No. There’s more. We stopped for a second to review the situation, see if we could come around on the flank and clear a path, but - they pulled out their ghost to scan the - whatever it was they found. They held up their ghost and a shredder bolt took it clean out of the air. Melted it. Then this … this portal, I don’t know, a hole just ... opened and something grabbed them. And we ran, Commander, we _ran_ … and if you want to court martial me you can go right ahead because that’s what I saw and if I ever see it again I’d do the same thing.”.

She shudders to a halt, breathing hard both from the remembered fear and the present anger. She’s no neophyte, she’s seen some things in her time, but … there isn’t enough vodka in the whole damned system to wash away the memory of what she just saw.

Sloane hasn’t moved, watching one of her best people come apart at the seams and unable to do anything about it. She’s right on the edge herself, if she’s honest. What the hell was Sully thinking? After Cayde, after everything, what possessed them to take such a risk? She forces herself to breathe slowly, steadily, trying to control her own emotional response as she tries to compose the conversations she’s about to have with the Vanguard. And whoever else needs to know, oh god … who is there, that Sully was close to? There was a clan, wasn’t there, no doubt some other friends around about … they need to hear this in person, not over the grapevine. Her hand bunches into a fist at her side and she pulls herself together, clawing back her self-control somehow and setting out the sequence of next steps in her head.

“Okay. Okay ... I need everything you just told me in writing, in as much detail as you can recall, on my desk within the next half hour. Same goes for everyone in your squad. No conferring, you know the drill. Just ...dismissed. Go.”.

She should be gentler, she knows. She should have some reassuring words for these guardians, these people who’ve just seen hell and returned to tell the tale, but she has none. And nobody has any for her. A faint hum makes her jump; rig systems coming back online now the Hive signals are suppressed. _Damn_. That means she has no reason to put her next task off any longer. She excuses herself and finds a private corner so she can compose an update for the Vanguard, taking another deep breath before she starts to speak.

“Systems are back. Hive song is suppressed again … for now. Injury and damage reports still incoming.”.

She hesitates, and silently curses herself. _Say it. It won’t get any less real if you don’t say the words. Say it out loud_.

“But - looks like we lost Sully. They lost their ghost, and then we think maybe they were Taken. Some sort of portal, I don't know. My people are writing up their reports now, I’ll know more soon. I’m … I’m sorry.”.

She closes the channel as soon as the message is received, tearing off her wristcom and slumping forward on the desk, head in hands.


	45. The Pathway and the Agent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sully may be lost, but Drifter isn't going to leave it there. At least he'll get some answers, however bleak they may be.

* * *

"What just happened?”.

Drifter looks up sharply at Raven’s panicked question. “Somethin’ went wrong, is what happened. Quiet down. I need t’see what’s happenin’.”.

A chill spreads over the bridge as the crew absorbs the implications of that; Raven subsides uneasily and they all stop what they’re doing to wait for news. He toggles assorted switches on the comms panel, face set in concentration, until it finally chirps back into life and greenscreen lines start scrolling up and up. Nothing, nothing, nothing - ha, there it is - he dials down the scroll speed as the feed from Sloane’s command centre finally appears.

_[ … **rig two**, sections one through fifteen, fully operational … ]_

_Fine, whatever …_

_[ >... saw the **Hive** retreat once the suppressor was back online; no reason to suppose current **threat level** is any higher than normal … ]_

_Okay …?_

_[ >... any fireteams with experience of **Ascendant Plane** fieldwork to make themselves known to Commander Sloane immediately … ]_

_What the hell - _

_[ >... guardian **Echo-Three**-Delta missing in action, ghost ZP43-C reported destroyed at scene … ]_

_Right._

_[ >... teams report seeing some kind of free-standing **portal**, similar to Hive gateways but with no evidence of the usual **summoning ritual** … ]_

_There it is. She found a way through._

Dammit, should’ve known she’d get herself into trouble. And if her ghost is gone … he pushes back impatiently and stands up, leaning heavily on the panel for a second while he thinks. Jacob's voice slices across the tense silence.

“I’ll send the teams back down to the surface. Um … assuming Gambit is off for the time being.”.

Drifter clears the display with a swipe of his hand, nodding faintly to signal that he heard, but he can’t think of any words to respond adequately. Finally from somewhere he dredges up - “Yeah … thanks.”, in a distant voice. His gaze wanders around the bridge, taking in the anxious faces, and he comes back abruptly to his usual sharp focus.

"No - hold up, kid - keep it runnin’ for now. You’re in charge ’til I get back.”.

“Back from where?”.

He fixes Jacob with a bland stare as he checks and holsters his gun. “Down there, to see what’s what. Not enough intel up here.”. 

* * *

Strange, how the briefings never mention just how _tall_ he is. Sloane’s read them all, of course; she has to know about individuals of interest to the Vanguard and especially when they’re skulking around her rig playing lethal games with the Taken, but this is … well, she recognises him immediately, but she honestly can’t reconcile the imposing, dangerously calm man in front of her with the ’shady little rat-man’ immortalised in so many of the Tower’s bulletins. No shrimp herself, she’s having to look up very slightly to meet his eyes. 

And they said he was a shyster, damn it, a snake oil salesman, a peddler in false hopes and stolen dreams with endless reserves of meaningless patter - so where has this deep, commanding tone been hiding all this time? She catches herself wanting to salute, and clenches one hand into a fist at her side.

“The Arcology is off limits.”, she repeats sharply. “If we decide to mount a rescue mission, I’ll let you know.”.

“Not good enough.”. He doesn’t raise his voice or step forward, but he might as well have done. A chill energy, one that has nothing to do with the frozen methane sleeting across the deck behind her, radiates off him. “I lent you one o’my crew, they saved the day like always, and then you lost ‘em. If you’re not gonna lift a hand to look for ‘em, then I’ll do it myself. Got it?”.

“We have to wait for the Vanguard -“.

He cuts her off with a crack of bitter laughter. “Oh, you think the Vanguard are gonna make an effort? That’s cute. Even if we can get ‘em back, they won’t care. Got no use for ‘em if they ain't a guardian any more.”. 

He turns away, but halts as she speaks. “That’s as may be, but Sully was more than just a guardian. If we can get them back, then we’ll do whatever we have to. But right now there’s nothing I can do.”.

A glimpse of the showman surfaces; he grins widely as if he’s just made a killer sale. “Well that’s fine, because that’s all I need. You go ahead and do nothin’, and keep outta my way.”.

She should report this to Ikora, she tells herself as his even footsteps retreat down the corridor. She should let the Vanguard know … but odds are he’ll come back with nothing, and there’s no point raising false hope. Maybe he won’t come back at all, and that’ll be one less problem for the Tower to worry about. Either way, she decides she can safely wait and see.

* * *

If Sloane thought she was Drifter’s only source of pertinent information, she’d be sadly mistaken. He’d talked to Noush before he even registered on the commander's radar, looking for the precise location of the suppressor, and other obliging sources have turned up a largely complete map of the Arcology’s service tunnels that brings him to the scene considerably faster than the usual route. It's not more than a few minutes later when he emerges smoothly from behind a glitching display panel and steps out into the atrium, straightening his duster and brushing some dust off his sleeve as if he were stepping out of an elevator.

Yep, this is the place alright. The suppressor beacon hums undisturbed on top of its pillar, the architect of this disaster, and Drifter spares it a black scowl as he passes. Spent shells and bullet casings litter the moss underfoot; hunks of chitin here and there mark where unlucky Hive fell, scorched outlines and faded plasma blotches painting the once-pristine white walls with a frieze of violence past. Still no sign of Hive, which seems odd - Noush’s countermeasures must be doing their job. _Or maybe they already got what they came for_, his inner voice prompts; he shuts it down. He doesn’t want to think about that just yet. He casts a swift glance around to measure up the space and begins to methodically quarter the battleground for any sign of … well, anything. He’s not entirely sure what he’s looking for, only that he’ll know it when he finds it.

At the base of the pillar he uncovers her tool roll; automatically he picks it up and starts rolling it back up, checking everything is where it should be, absently tying the cords while he scans the leaf litter at his feet for anything else. The report said she picked something up, an artefact maybe, but there’s nothing here. Okay, maybe whatever it was went though the portal with her. Fine.

At the far side is the entrance the fireteams would have used, taking the longer way round, and looks like that’s where they held ground while she did the job. The detritus of battle is thickest here, and something else … Sully’s pack, evidently abandoned when they ran away. He pulls a disapproving face at that image, of them just fleeing for their lives when she was in danger, but he’ll admit he’d probably have done the same - if it had been anyone but her, obviously. He hunkers down to put the tool roll away; he can take this back to the ship if nothing else. He’s not sure why, but he feels like it matters. Maybe someone should get her stuff, or something ...? Maas’s tattooed face comes into his mind suddenly, and he hesitates - someone’s gonna have to tell him what went down. _Wonder who's pulled the short straw on that one_.

The top of the pack is loosely closed but not fastened, and he lifts the flap - then jumps back in alarm with his hand on his gun as the contents suddenly shift on their own.

“Oh, thank the Traveller - I thought I was going to be trapped down here alone forever!”, wails a muted tinny voice, and he stares in disbelief as her ghost struggles free of the canvas flaps and peers out at him. “Could we get out of here, please?”.


	46. Hubris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nemesis /ˈnɛmɪsɪs/ , n.
> 
> "... the goddess of divine retribution and revenge, who would show her wrath to any human being that would commit hubris, i.e. arrogance before the gods. Nemesis was widely used in the Greek tragedies and various other literary works, being the deity that would give what was due to the protagonist ..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear when I started writing this I didn't intend for it to end up with approaching fifty chapters. If you're still with me at this point, thank you for your patience, and I hope you're still enjoying it!

“What the hell - !”, Drifter's startled shout echoes off the walls before he hastily lowers his voice. ‘What the hell are you doin’ here? Where’s your guardian?”.

“I’m … not sure.”. The little drone flutters free of the bag opening and turns to face him. “I’ve been trying to track them, but the signal cut off too quickly.”.

“Goddamn worthless hunk of tin.”, he hisses furiously. “You just hid in there while they got Taken? How come you’re still here? They said you got destroyed!”.

“Decoy.”, the ghost replies sadly. “A precaution. We knew the Hive would try something - they rigged up a fake ghost from old parts, just in case. I gave them a hard time about it, too … but they were right. I’d be scrap metal right now if it weren’t for them.”.

Its tone turns maudlin, but he's unconcerned with that; his mind is racing ahead, a dozen questions surfacing. If she saw this coming, that means she had some sort of plan - why would she just go ahead and do this on her own? Didn't she know he knew more about this stuff than anyone alive? Didn't she trust him to help? A memory floats up, her telling him about the pyramid ship on the moon and yeah, his immediate reaction was 'I'm outta here, you're on your own.' ... Okay, so maybe she didn't trust him; maybe she assumed he'd refuse to get involved. Couldn't blame her for that. _Damn_.

He sighs and squares his shoulders, letting out the angry tension. “Okay, I get it. They saw this comin'. Why the fuck didn’t you stop 'em? What were they thinkin'?”.

The ghost wisely lets the first question pass, and tackles the second. “They wanted to see if they could be tracked if they got Taken. We got some telemetry before the portal closed - if I can pick up anything now we might be able to work out where they are.”.

“Yeah? Good plan, nice idea, but - honestly, I don't think it's gonna work. You needed to do a whole lotta prep for that - I could've told you - why the hell didn’t they ask me …? Ya know what, never mind.”.

He realises he's falling back into resentment, an unproductive tangent with no answers and no joy even if he got them. Anger keeps bubbling up, but it's self-directed - fury at himself for not spotting the signs mingled with shame at the likely reasons she kept it from him. He brought this on himself. He throws up his hands in exasperation and stands back with a sharp ‘be my guest’ flourish to let the ghost float past him into the atrium. It’s a pathetic sight, the subdued droop of its shell sections as it desperately quarters the deserted battleground, and the picture perfectly reflects his own darkening mood. All this could have been avoided, if she'd just trusted him. If he'd told her the whole truth. How could she even think she could handle this on her own ...?

Eventually he shakes off his sulks long enough to remember the possibility of Hive down here, for all that they're quiet right now, and steps over to keep watch while the ghost continues its search. It doesn’t seem to be finding anything, and he cautiously allows his own ghost out for a moment or two in case it picks up anything on the more specialised frequencies it's capable of detecting, but there’s nothing. No sign of her bio-signature, no trace of her physical body, not even a fragment of her gear. No matter how the little drone scans there’s nothing to be found except the faint residue of Taken energy from the portal. Nobody made it off Titan alive, when the Darkness came; there are wild stories about how maybe the Darkness wasn’t the only threat to humanity that day, but right now it just feels like the place itself is eating people whole. And now it’s consumed Sully as well. Maybe, deep down, he was secretly hoping there would turn out to be an easy solution here … guess he should have learned not to hope by now.

Disappointment sours his mouth when he finally takes charge and orders her exhausted ghost to give up and shut down, tucking it away as its optic dims and retreating swiftly back through the service tunnels. Whatever possible chance there might be of getting her back, it’s not happening here and now. They need a better plan.

* * *

Slivers of light creep around the edges of the shutters, but not enough to do more than touch the outlines of the furniture, faint curves and lines in a lighter shade of gloom against the dark. A muted pool of light above the desk marks a single lamp, turned down to its lowest setting and giving just enough light to read by at close quarters. Rustling robes and the occasional muffled curse in the dimness mark Ikora’s progress across the room; then abruptly there’s a thump, a moment of held breath, and finally a fluttering crescendo of neatly stacked paperwork slithering to the floor in disarray. She exclaims in dismay and clutches at the edges of the stack, but it’s too late. _Damn it_. Several hours of careful sorting and ordering her backlog of notes, wasted.

It was the only progress she’d made today, too. Her study is unrecognisable, a far cry from its usual serene order. Books are tumbled here and there, pulled from the shelf distractedly then laid aside unread; reports and half-formed analyses are spread out across the desk, mingled with half-finished cups of tea long gone cold and the remains of two barely-touched meal trays. And somewhere under all that is the thing she’s been avoiding, a draft of the official dispatch informing Tower personnel about the news from Titan. She hasn’t been able to get past the first sentence without her mind rebelling, and the mess is a silent accusation, evidence of twenty-four hours' worth of displacement activity.

The trouble is, strangely, that she has too much time on her hands. It’s been a very, _very_ long time since that was the case, but with the Moon situation stable for the moment and Zavala coordinating the Warmind effort, she’s been uncharacteristically unoccupied. There’s the usual Vanguard duty of course, but lately she’s seen a drop off even in that, fewer and fewer guardians stopping by once they realise she has nothing for them.

Which is why this has hit her so hard. She has time to think now, time to brood, time to grieve … not like she did for Cayde, that was justified and righteous fury at his murder, but this - she sighs heavily as she starts stacking the scattered papers back up. This is a friend gone too soon on what should have been a routine mission; a stupid, pointless waste of potential, and the loss of someone who always gave her hope. It’s not anger she’s feeling now, but despair. Try as she might, she can’t conjure up any version of the necessary bulletin that doesn’t reflect her own loss of hope. That won’t do; the Tower needs to look ahead to what’s to be done, not wallow in misery. Morale is paramount.

A hesitant tap on the door is a welcome interruption to her reverie; she composes herself to answer it, and opens it with a forbidding glare. The hapless visitor, one of Zavala’s intel officers, fixes his gaze resolutely above the top of her head and offers a datapad. “Commander Zavala thought you ought to see this, ma’am.”.

She takes it automatically, only then thinking to ask, “What is it?”.

“Reports from the Reef. He said it looks like your department, is all I know.”.

He’s gone before she can question him further. _Coward_, she thinks to herself, but whether she means the escaping messenger or his commander she’s not sure herself. _'My department', hah - what is that supposed to mean? Found something you can’t punch or blow up?_ She sighs irritably, but moves a pile of books from her chair and settles down to review it nonetheless. Duty calls.

Twenty minutes later she’s brushing past the protesting duty guard and into Zavala’s office without ceremony.

“Is this … could it be - what I think it is?”. She waves the datapad urgently at him.

She can barely believe it herself, but it’s there in black and white - corroborated first-hand accounts of unusual Taken activity scattered around the Reef. It’s not unusual to hear about Taken roaming the area from time to time, what with the curse and all, but this is a troubling new pattern. Blights are spawning in places they haven’t been seen before, and rumours of a new entity that defies all attempts to bring it down. Guardians who’ve encountered it swear it fights like it knows every trick in the Tower’s handbooks, and if unchallenged it simply lurks on the edges of the field, watching. Descriptions vary, but the strongest theory is it’s a Taken guardian. What else could it be? And the implications ... a human-shaped, powerful Taken with knowledge of Tower protocols …

“It’s them, isn’t it. It's Sully.”.

“I can’t think of any other explanation - can you?”. Zavala picks up a mission folder from the pile on his desk and hands it to her. “Whatever it is, needs dealing with. One way or the other. I’ve made a list of resources you can call on, but I suspect you will have your own ideas. Let me know what you need.”.

She glances down at the folder in her hand, at its freshly printed label, and smiles wryly; _Codename Nemesis_. _How apt_.

* * *

Three long, disorienting days pass before Drifter has even the inkling of a plan. Disorienting because although he’s busy, the time seems to drag out endlessly; and yet he has no time to sit and think, between all the jobs that need doing. Time is out of joint, somehow. It’ll be time to leave Titan for the next Nessus rotation soon, but he finds himself unwilling to leave without knowing if there’s anything more he can do here.

And there’s no new information, even with all the new keywords he’s added to his comms intercepts. At a bare minimum if he could just find out what the Vanguard were doing, he could work around the edges of that, filling the gaps they’ve missed, but as far as he can tell they’re doing … nothing. Sully’s name hasn’t even been mentioned, like they’re trying to pretend it hasn’t happened. And he knows for a fact the Warmind is tracking something coming into the system from beyond the Kuiper Belt, but official channels are silent on that too. Must be hiding all the bad news to keep morale up, but it’s gonna backfire before too long.

While he waits for a breakthrough he’s taken to sleeping in the container again, stretched out alone on the narrow bunk. That first night in the crawlspace … well, it wasn’t too bad, he’s slept by himself in there plenty of times when she was off running missions or whatever. But that first morning waking, reaching out for her in confusion and finding only cold, empty space, the fresh realisation the she’s not there and she may not be coming back, that just about broke him. The bomb shelter’s spartan made-for-one vibe breaks the association, the feeling that she should be next to him, and for now it’s enough. He’s functioning, he’s sticking to the plan, and he’ll know what he needs when he sees it. It’ll have to do.

He almost misses it, when it comes. A new mission code, some credulous gossip on the inter-guardian channels, and a call for warlocks to submit research on portals and Awoken physiology ... bits and pieces, nothing that would spark his interest on any other day. But put together, there's a hint, a suggestion, that the Vanguard are up to something. He drums his fingers on the edge of the console casing, a nervous tattoo while he tries to think, tries to dampen the rising adrenaline. At last, some action. _Focus, idiot ... what's gonna work out best? Think, dammit!_

Jacob picks up on the change in him, perceptive as ever, and sits up straighter. Drifter's spark is back, the energy he hadn't been able to put a name to in the last few days; the subdued, sullen man who came back from the surface of Titan dissolves and the showman, the actor, the _survivor_ surfaces once more. _Finally. Thank the Traveller_.

"You have something?".

"Maybe.", Drifter answers distantly, still tapping his fingers. "Maybe ... yeah. Saddle up, kid. Get the crew movin'. We need to get some matches scheduled for the Shore.".


	47. Still Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is passing, our hero is still missing, and the Vanguard don't seem to have a plan. Drifter's feeling more helpless than ever - until a small piece of Sully's plan comes to light. Maybe this is the breakthrough he's been hoping for?

Barely visible in the deep shadows of his corner, only a faint amber gleam gives away Drifter's presence as he idly swirls the last drop of whisky in his glass and scowls at the deactivated console. Everyone else has long since turned in, leaving him behind to power down the bridge and get set up for the next day. That was all taken care of hours ago though. It's late night by Reef time, so late it’s almost early; his favourite time of day, when all normal people are asleep and he can scheme in peace. He maintains he gets his best work down at this hour, one of the reasons he fell into the habit of standing the first watch of the night whenever the opportunity offered - but he's not on watch now. Right now he's just brooding in a corner, avoiding his lonely bed. He's been in a black mood all day, watching yet another day flit by with no progress, no new information, just a bunch of new problems - one damn thing after another cropping up that he couldn’t delegate, all of it putting him further and further behind. Honestly, he’s one malfunction away from cancelling Gambit altogether, skipping the system and turning off the crew, if it weren’t for the fact he’ll need people watching his back when the Darkness arrives. That was the whole point, after all.

And he can't face leaving without _her_

Hard to be certain with the current news blackout, but as far as he’s any judge the Vanguard aren’t searching for Sully at all; at least, there’s no sign of official activity out here - not even the faces of Ikora’s secret Praxic police that he’s had memorised since forever. He can’t account for their absence. Zavala he could understand, but surely the Warlock Vanguard isn’t planning to sit on the sidelines and treat this like some sort of research project …? Man, he’s been accused of being cold in his time, but she’s something else. Hell of a way to behave when she’s supposedly lost a friend. More than ever it strengthens his conviction that the Tower only ever regarded Sully as a useful tool, an overpowered Swiss Army knife they could apply to any problem until it went away. With her ghost destroyed - as far as they know anyway, he’s been keeping his discovery of the little drone firmly to himself - she’s no use to the Vanguard, and it’s clear they’ll expend no effort to get her back as long as they believe she's lost her connection to the Light. _You all don’t deserve her_, he sneers at them silently. _You never did_. Maybe this is what it’ll take for her to finally cut ties with the Tower and stick with him permanently. She doesn’t owe them any loyalty after this.

But as much as it might serve his long-term desires, their apparent apathy frustrates his immediate need for information. If he could just get access to their intel he might have something to go on, but as it is he’s just repeating the same basic search pattern over and over, quartering the patrol zones and hoping to catch a Taken incursion and make some observations of his own. Guardians are starting to grumble about the repetitive arena rotation - well, if it wasn’t that they’d be bitching about something else, let’s face it - but he stubbornly refuses to move the Derelict and the crew away from here until … until something. _Anything_. Literally any sign that he’s on the right track, or even incontrovertible proof that he’s on the wrong one, he doesn’t care. Just something other than the current nothing. He was so sure he was on to something when he dragged everybody out here, so damn sure, but now … he’s at a loss again.

Well, nothing to be gained by sulking in the dark. He sets his now-empty glass down with a decisive thump and heads to bed, defeated.

* * *

The shift in Gambit scheduling patterns hasn't gone unremarked; Ikora's ever-efficient network brought her word of the Derelict's arrival before it even cleared the edge of the Reef. The Praxic order isn't her only source, not by a long way. Every day since the change, the first thing she checks is whether the Drifter has moved on yet. She's not sure why or how, but whatever he's up to is tied to Sully's disappearance somehow. It _has_ to be. And he must still be expecting to profit somehow from the situation, otherwise he'd be somewhere past Ceres by now and still accelerating, with the Darkness so close. What is he playing at? He knows something more than he's telling. She's itching to break protocol, forget she's a Vanguard, head out there undercover and choke the truth out of his lying throat ...

"Your hands are clenched. Thinking about the Drifter again?".

Ophi's voice breaks her train of thought, and she smiles wryly, looking down and flexing her fingers to relax them. "How could you tell?".

"Nobody else makes you that angry. Did you meditate yet today?".

"No. No, there wasn't time. Too much to think about.".

He floats over and hovers between her and the latest reports from the Reef that she'd been scanning - or rather, pretending to scan. In truth her mind has been endlessly turning over possible courses of action, one idea after another half-formed and then dismissed. If pressed, she couldn't recall a word of what she's been supposedly reading for the last hour.

Ophi sighs like a disappointed parent, that more-in-sadness-than-in-anger vibe that every ghost with a strong-willed guardian is intimately familiar with.

"I thought so. Do it now, Ikora. You have to take better care of yourself or you're going to burn out.". 

She has to smile, seeing him bob in front of her face as if he was wagging a finger at her - but he's right, of course. He knows her too well. She's perilously close to snapping, and she can't indulge her anger, however satisfying - and however justified - it would be. She raises both hands and stretches out her arms to release the tension, shaking them out and rolling her shoulders a couple of times, before obediently closing her eyes.

After a second she murmurs out of the corner of her mouth, "If I find out he put them up to this, I _am_ going to kill him - and nobody will blame me.". 

"Shhh. Clear your mind.". 

* * *

Back in the container, Drifter has finally managed to get comfortable. He must be getting soft, just like he was afraid of; the rigid camp-bed frame seeming to dig in to his back no matter how he twists and turns. The mood he’s in he wasn't expecting to sleep anyway; hadn’t thought he’d be able to do more than close his eyes, maybe a power nap. But he does, once he finally settles, emotional exhaustion plus probably a little too much whisky conspiring to flip the switch and boot him into shutdown. It’s a blessing, really - until the dreaming starts.

At least it’s not the usual dream. No corpses, no burning, no pyramid ships - no Orin, back to taunt him with twisted futures he can’t avoid. Makes a nice change. Instead he’s back at the bar, the one he used to run at the foot of the mountain, back when things were less complicated and he had fewer regrets. It’s oddly comforting, being transported back to this place and time in his history. Ever the showman, even back then he'd stage-managed it all meticulously, laying out the scenery just so - the dark wood floor, stained to cover the spilled beer and spilled blood from a dozen fights every week; the artfully scuffed, mismatched furniture; the welcoming glow of the fireplace in the corner and unobtrusive lighting everywhere else - it's pitch perfect. Coming through the door is like coming home to a place you've never been; safe, anonymous, decently clean and reasonably cheap. It's a magnet for adventurers and wanderers, just as he’d intended, detouring to the foot of the mountain to spend their money with him rather than passing through to somewhere else.

And oh, how it works - the place is roaring, crammed with punters shouting merrily over each other and jostling for service at the tap, so much so that he can barely keep up. Gonna be a good night, he reckons, looking forward to counting the takings later. And as for that slender boy with the soulful brown eyes drowning his sorrows at the end of the bar, well, somewhere towards the end of the night he’s gonna ask for the tab and realise he’s way past overspent … and that’s when the, uh, _alternative_ payment plan gets discussed. One way or another, he'll be working it off. He can feel the sap rising in anticipation just thinking about it. _Yeah. A good night_. He smirks to himself and turns to serve his next customer.

The dream skips; he’s strolling through the crowd now, collecting glasses, catching familiar faces here and there, nodding in occasional greeting and moving on. Gotta make sure everyone’s having a good time. Snatches of conversation swirl around him, snippets of gossip and jokes and politics, drunken arguments, a burst of laughter from behind him - he turns smoothly to see what’s so funny.

Sitting casually at the edge of the shadows is Sully. Large as life, from the scuffed armour to the untidy hair and right up to the hint of a smile lurking in her eyes, she shines out from the unfocused crowd in the background; every plate of her chest piece, every hair, every line of her face in sharp relief, like she's the only real thing in here. A beacon in the dark. He can't remember why she matters, he just knows she does, very much; he moves that way automatically. Maybe there was something he needed to tell her, or was it something he had to ask her … ? Anyway, something needs to happen.

In front of her there’s already a bottle - and a single glass, despite the indistinct group of figures with her. That feels important too, but his dreaming brain doesn’t let him stop to puzzle over it - he’s already stepping up and claiming the empty seat opposite her. Ah, that was it, he was going to ask her where she was, where she’d gone, but it doesn’t matter now.

“See ya found the place alright - welcome to the End Of The World.”.

He chuckles happily at his own wit, looking around to see who else is laughing. When his gaze settles back on her she’s watching him with a faint smile, leaning her elbows on the table and idly tapping a fingertip against the glass, but she doesn’t respond.

“What, nothin' to say?”.

That gets him a raised eyebrow, and despite it all he smiles. It’s okay, she’s not gone, she’s right here. She’s been waiting for him the whole time, right here in the place where everybody ends up. It’s fine. He stares foolishly, watching the light play on her face, wondering why the hell he’s just sitting here instead of getting on with his work. It doesn't make sense. Well, it's only a stupid dream - it doesn't have to. He's content to just sit here and enjoy the view.

But little by little things shift - the comfortable floating this-is-just-a-dream sensation starts to fade, the background roar of the crowd dies away to barely a murmur and the tattered wooden panelling behind her fades to insignificance. He looks away abruptly to cover his rising discomfort and stares at his hands, at the battered wood grain of the table, the sticky rings from drinks placed down in a rush - the firelight glinting off the rim of the glass, and the texture of her pale hand wrapped around it, the light moving in sluggish waves under her skin, the weave of the fabric at her wrist … it’s all too real, too detailed, too present - too lucid. Which means it can’t be _just_ a dream. He remembers all in a rush that this isn’t real, and she’s not really here. She’s gone, and he needs her back, and he has no idea how to do it.

“Should’ve told me.”. The words tumble out, low and bitter, before he can stop them. “Dammit, why didn’t ya trust me?”.

Her face lights up with the familiar wicked grin, and she leans forward conspiratorially. "You’re talking to the version of me that lives in your head.”, she murmurs. "If you don’t know ... neither do I.”.

_Right_. All his pain and hurt floods back all at once - goddam universe full of magic, and he can’t even have this one simple thing? A second chance, a message from beyond the grave, one final opportunity to say goodbye? One last chance to tell her he … well, whatever. Doesn’t matter. He’ll never get to say it now. It’s just a dream.

She sees his face fall, and raises the glass as if to toast him. “Eli. It’s never ‘just' a dream ... your brain is looking for an explanation for this.”.

"Explanation for what?". He looks up sharply, and she taps the glass gently against the neck of the bottle.

“This.”.

* * *

The muffled _tink_ of glass on glass is still ringing in his ears as he starts awake, heart thumping, struggling to free his arms from the tattered bedroll and defend himself against … what?

The empty corners of the container mock his panic; there’s nothing here. Nothing lurking in the dark, nothing hiding under his bed, nothing coming to get him. He’s wide awake now though, shivering with a rush of fight-or-flight adrenaline, zero chance of settling back down to sleep any time soon. Not that he wants to, if there’s a chance of more dreams like that - dammit, he didn't even get to the good part. Might as well get up and get something done, maybe grab some coffee. He swears irritably under his breath, swinging his legs off the bunk and shrugging on his duster against the creeping cold.

Somewhere in the subdued bustle as he gets moving in the cramped space he thinks he hears something, and he halts suspiciously. Was that his sleeve knocking against something, or was it … no, there it is again; like a tiny bell, muffled but unmistakeable. He holds his breath and concentrates, waiting for it to come again so he can fix on where it’s coming from. Nothing … nothing … _tink_ … over here somewhere, wait for it … _tink_ … in the corner? What the hell … he stalks it like a cat with a mouse, waiting to hear it again; and just as it comes he sees a flicker of light, pale and bluish, over on the workbench. _Gotcha_. He sweeps some junk aside and stares at the culprit.

It's that damn sensor array, the one she was fixing up for him - done and finished apparently, judging by the power indicator lit up on the side and the way it’s chirping at him. But what has she done to it …? One solitary blue light winks at him as the sound comes again, and he snaps his fingers for her ghost.

“What the fuck is this?”, he demands, jabbing an imperious finger at the array, and the ghost’s optic blazes triumphantly.

“Yessss! It _worked_!”.

* * *

One hour later he’s on to his second pot of coffee, huddled back in his corner of the bridge with a screen full of calculations and the little drone hovering next to him him patiently explaining for the third time.

“So you’re sayin’ this thing can track where they are.”.

“No, not - it’s not quite as simple as that. Look, you know they spent a while reverse-engineering your portal tech ...?”.

He freezes. He didn’t know that - _damn_, is she good at keeping secrets, when did she get time to do all that without him knowing? Anyway … he waves at the ghost to continue.

“So, your invasion portal setup can track when someone with a specific instance marker crosses to the dimension in the other instance, yes?”.

He grudgingly indicates as to how that might the case, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as he wonders how much else she figured out without him there to justify his actions. If she knows it all, it’s a miracle she was still talking to him. Fuck - even if he gets her back, he might still be screwed. He waves that worry away for later and tries to focus back on what the ghost is saying.

“Okay, so this is an extension of that. They set this up so it tracks anomalies in a specific dimension, one where no entities should be active. It’s activated for some reason, which must mean there’s been a change on that … uh … spectrum, I guess we’d call it?”.

It makes sense, mangled naming conventions aside, but one specific thing is bothering him.

“How’d they know which dimension? Ain’t the same as Gambit, you got a choice of two and it’s all preset. How’d they set this up? They been there before?”.

“Uh, they didn’t tell me that part - believe me, I asked. But they wouldn’t give me any details, they just fed me some calculations with the values already plugged in and I verified the math. That’s all I know. I think it might have something to do with that encounter with the Pyramid on the moon.”.

He absorbs that, pouring himself yet more coffee while he tries to think. If the ghost is right, whatever’s on the other end of that signal might be her - or equally it might be an army of the Darkness waiting to pour through. One false move now could start the Apocalypse for sure.

“It’s a helluva risk.”, he muses. “What are we s'posed to do now, follow the signal? What if it ain’t them on the other end?”.

“Again, it’s not that simple. If the dimension is active now because they’ve found their way there, that should mean the next time they appear in this plane we’ll get ... uh ... _this_ one should light up, and if it's definitely them then _this_ one will too ... no, _this_ one. Anyway, we'll see a blip both from the dimension and from them. I think.”.

“You _think_ …! You don’t know? What if you’re wrong?”.

“If I’m wrong, we’ll see nothing - and we’ll be no worse off than we are now. If I’m right, we’ll know where they are. Isn’t that what you wanted?”.

The injured dignity in its robotic tone makes him smile unwillingly. _Machine’s got hurt feelings, huh. Who knew_. He doesn’t like the sound of ’no worse off than we are now’, but the way things are going it’s way better than the alternative. He sighs heavily and stands up.

“Fine. Just … you let me know if anything else triggers on this thing. I got work to do.”.

He drains the last of the coffee and, with a glance at the chrono, clears the console screen to pull up his task list for the day. His hand trembles, hovering over the keyboard, and he stares at it for a long moment before starting to type.

_Caffeine overload_, he tells himself. _Nothing more_.


	48. Loose Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sully's been gone - Taken - for weeks now. People are trying to rebuild their lives, move on to whatever the next phase ought to be, because that's what people do. Right?
> 
> And then there's the Drifter.

* * *

_Shouts in the distance herald the return of the hunt, with uproarious laughter and backslapping as they swagger through the archway and drop their spoils in the courtyard. It’s meagre pickings, which is precisely why the hunts are necessary. With most of the productive population running off to the new city, nobody around here has much of anything; those that do have something are inclined to be selfish about sharing. The first time of asking, at least - after a few examples have been made they tend to open up to a heartwarming degree._

_The self-styled warlord of the region, leader of this group of rogue Risen, hears the noise and saunters out into the afternoon sun to review the day's takings. He's not impressed._

_“Is this it? Three days you’ve been gone, and this is all you bring me?”._

_“Not quite.”, a lone voice calls from the arch, the last of the posse just passing into the yard with a body dressed in Eliksni rags hoisted over his shoulder. “We dealt with that little bug infestation in the caverns, and look what else we found?”._

_“Leave your carrion outside; I don’t need dead vermin stinking up my courtyard.”, the warlord snarls and his underling grins triumphantly._

_“Ain’t a bug; it’s human. He was hiding down there with them, probably the reason we’ve been having so much trouble lately. Been spying for them, translating for them. Thought you’d like to deal with the little bastard yourself, make an example.”._

_“Hah! Damn right I would. Bring him in.”. The disappointing hunt is forgiven; it's time for some entertainment._

_The Fallen collaborator takes a while to come round; apparently it took three of them to subdue him in the first place, even with light-assisted strength, and his ferocious resistance was only ended with a sharp blow to the back of his head from a mailed fist. Probably explains why he's so out of it now, most likely concussed if not worse. He can stand though, barely, once he’s been revived and dragged into the centre of the hall. He’s favouring a badly twisted ankle, wincing occasionally, and keeping a careful eye on the lightbearer lounging in the high-backed stone chair on the dais._

_“That looks painful. Why don’t you tell your ghost to stop hiding and heal you.”._

_The boy doesn’t react, other than to blink momentarily; the warlord frowns and leans forward with an impatient gesture._

_“Don't play dumb with me. You’re Risen, yes? I can practically smell the light on you, even from here. Bring out your ghost.”._

_The boy just continues to stare in confusion, and he grits his teeth, waving his own ghost forward. It circles around the boy, scanning from all angles as he tries to flinch away, but the guard is quick to seize his arms and hold him still for the inspection. He finally makes a sound, cursing under his breath in Eliksni, and the warlord smirks._

_“Well, I haven’t heard that one in a while … but if I’m not mistaken he just called your mother a Dreg.”._

_The guard shrugs it off and keeps his hold while the scans are completed and the ghost floats back to his Risen. There’s a low buzz of conversation, of information being transferred, then the warlord turns back to stare at the boy in surprise._

_“You’re sure?”, he murmurs aside to the ghost. “Nothing?”. The ghost nods assent, and he frowns. “I could have sworn …”._

_His iron-tipped boots scrape on the stone as he comes forward, watching the struggling prisoner; he halts a couple of feet away with his hand on his sword hilt and a hint of regret in his eye._

_“A shame. If you’d been Risen I could have used you. As it is ... you’re a liability. Nothing personal.”. He nods to the guard who promptly stands back, and the shining blade sweeps across. _ _“A shame.”, he remarks again to nobody in particular, cleaning his blade and putting it away. _

_He’s still half expecting the corpse to evaporate, for the boy to come barrelling around the corner fully-healed and raging for his head in return, but the pathetic tangle is still there until an hour later when he shouts for someone to clean up the mess. With that done, he puts it out of his mind._

* * *

* * *

The noise of that damn sensor array is getting on Drifter's nerves. At first, every time he heard the tinny chirping he’d stop whatever he was doing to watch it, holding his breath as he waited for more parts to light up. But they don’t. Aside from that regular blue flash they’ve remained stubbornly inert - for three days now, three days waiting for something new to happen. Three tedious days pretending to be fine, pretending to be patient, pretending to have his shit together. It’s got so bad he’s considering shutting the whole thing away in a locker somewhere to muffle the sound, except if he did that he might miss something important.

_Tink_.

His head whips round just in time to catch another solitary blue flicker; he clenches his jaw and raises his eyes heavenwards like a man goaded beyond endurance.

“You don’t have to keep watching it, you know. I’ll tell you if anything happens.”.

He rolls his eyes at the ghost’s chiding tone. “Yeah, I know. Can’t help it.”.

“You’re stressing yourself unnecessarily. It’s not good for you.”.

“I know that too. You nag your guardian like this?”.

“Yes, actually … for all the good it ever does.”.

That disgruntled addition makes him chuckle at last, and he eases himself out of his chair.

“Well, let’s get ‘em back - and then maybe you’ll get off my case, yeah? I’ll be out back if ya need me.”.

* * *

There isn’t actually anything that needs doing back here, but at least he’s not getting his hopes up every two minutes. There ought to be something he can find to do while he waits …

His eye settles eventually on Sully’s pack, dumped in the nearest convenient corner when he got back from Titan. Over time it’s gradually tumbled over on to its side with the contents threatening to spill out - probably should tidy that up. One of these days either she’ll be back for it, or he’ll have to hand it off to whoever’s supposed to have it, so he might as well make sure it's in good order. Seems like that would matter, somehow.

It was probably a bad idea, he realises once he tips everything out on the bench; pretty much every item sparks some painful memory. Here’s that antique book she was reading, a folded scrap of paper stuck between the pages to mark her place; he opens out the impromptu bookmark out of curiosity to find it’s nothing more than a torn-off strip of some old Vanguard roster. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been hoping for something more - a letter perhaps, or a note she’d left for him … well, never mind. He replaces it and closes the book carefully; she likes this one, she keeps re-reading it, over and over again. She’ll be back to read it again, if he has anything to do with it.

He’d already checked her tool roll when he found it at the scene, so that goes back in without further inspection. The other tool case turns out to hold odds and ends of scavenged components, data modules and spooled wire, tiny scraps of gold for repairing connectors - all things you couldn’t rely on finding at random in a hurry if you needed them. Good idea to carry a few spares around just in case. And one unexpected addition - a random playing piece from a Kells set. Another memory rises up, her playing the game with Piet and the two Eliksni months ago on their trip. This piece isn’t from that set though, that was all top-quality semi-precious stones. This one, despite its undeniable workmanship, looks like something far more mundane; dull gray with white striations, like a pebble picked up off a beach. The crisp carving shows a stylised hammer and anvil - what does that represent, some kind of forge, yeah - The Archon, this piece must be. He turns it over a few more times, flipping it expertly along his knuckles and back again like it’s one of his jade coins, before dropping it back in the case and turning to the next thing in the heap.

That turns out to be something he really didn’t expect; her copy of Malfeasance, wrapped up in a length of scrap fabric. Not like her to keep a weapon where she couldn’t lay her hand on it in a fight … what the hell was she thinking, heading off to fight Taken without it? It makes no sense. He lifts it up and balances it in his hand, marvelling again at its sinister perfection. Doesn’t look like she’s ever fired it in anger; the blue-green patina is unmarked, the pristine red cord wound neatly around the barrel just like when they first made it. He holds it in his lap for a long while, thinking back to the making, and when he puts everything else back in the pack the gun stays out. Maybe somebody else is supposed to get her other stuff, but not this. This means something only to him.

That just leaves one final item, rolled up into a compact bundle; her woven blanket. On impulse he unrolls it and brings it close to his face, inhaling deeply - oh, that was a mistake. The scent of her is still on it, unbelievable after so many days have passed, and he stops dead as it triggers a wave of longing he hadn’t thought he had the capacity for. No doubt about it, he’s going soft.

He’s unrolling the heavy weave and spreading it out over his bedroll before he’s finished figuring out a justification that doesn’t make him seem weak - not like anyone’s gonna see, much less comment, but still - he needs a reason, even for himself. It’s getting cold in here at night, he tells himself. His bedroll is falling apart. Sure, he could get a new one out of stores, but for now the blanket is closer to hand. _Yeah. That’ll do_.

He’s faintly ashamed of his lapse into sentiment. But he smooths the blanket down with a careful hand nonetheless, lingering there for just a moment longer than necessary.

* * *

That night he dreams he’s back at the bar again. It's vague, sight and sound muffled like he’s underwater, shapes moving around that he can’t fix his eye on, but he instantly knows the scene even in rippling shadow. It’s burned in his brain from all the time he spent there. In the dream he stalks a pale figure through the indistinct crowds, behind the bar, up to the tiny room at the top of the stairs - gentle hands find him in the darkness, guide him down on to the bed, unfasten his belt and slide into his pants, teasing him with featherlight touches.

He takes a shuddering breath in, arching up off the bed with unformed words catching in the back of his throat, fighting an overpowering languor. He wants to _move_, to take charge, to act - but he’s helpless, passive, lost in the sensation of that cool touch coaxing him to aching readiness. His clothes are gone, cold air striking across his legs, and he shivers with urgent need as bare skin slides against his, strong thighs straddling him and pinning him down. He’s dizzy with want, with the nearness of the warmth just hovering above him, ready to take him in; and suddenly he can move, all the power returning to his limbs, and he surges up with a triumphant growl -

— and jolts awake, tangled up in the ragged bedroll with one foot snagged through a fraying hole at the end.

That’s the least of his worries though; the loss of sensation as his phantom visitor fades away is enough to make him whimper in the dark, an almost physical lurch of disappointment. He sits up and untangles himself, tearing the ruined fabric away and freeing his feet, then flops back down blowing out his breath in a hopeless sigh. Sure, he could take himself in hand, but sexual frustration isn’t the issue here - you can’t die of blue balls, no matter what they say. It's the lack of _her _that's the problem, the gap where she's supposed to be. More than anything he just wants to roll over and pull her close, moulding himself around her warm body while he drifts off to sleep to the sound of her breathing. It's that goddam blanket, that’s what it is, fooling his brain into thinking she was here. If he doesn’t watch it he’s gonna end up cuddling it at night like a teddybear while he cries himself to sleep.

First thing in the morning, he resolves, he’ll step up the search somehow. He can’t go on like this.

* * *

Ikora is in a delicate mood; nearly two weeks of painstaking research has turned up a handful of tall tales of people being rescued from the Darkness, unattributed urban myths for the most part, and a few scholarly papers theorising - emphasis on the theory - about how Awoken physiology might reaction to Darkness. There's just one solitary halfway-reliable account including any practical observations, involving a Techeun in the Dreaming City. It’s a straw she’s more than willing to clutch at, and her preparations are well underway, but first … it’s time to have a difficult conversation. She’s kept the news under wraps for long enough; people need to know, starting with Maas.

Unexpectedly, Zavala volunteered to join her for the task, for moral support if nothing else. She nearly dismissed the offer, mentioned offhandedly during their daily briefing almost as if he wanted it to pass unnoticed, and if she hadn’t been looking right at him she’d have missed the anxiety in his face, the faint preemptive flinch when she opened her mouth to respond. _He still blames himself_, she realises. _Still_.

The knowledge slows her reflex just long enough to turn the rejection into acceptance; they can do this together. They _should_ do this together, a united front for once - and she privately vows that if she sees an opportunity to ease his residual guilt any time soon she’ll seize it. He can’t go on shouldering the blame, not when the real perpetrator is still out there happily running his scam and evading the consequences.

Once Maas joins them it quickly becomes even more awkward than she could have imagined - not because of any display of extreme shock or grief, which she could have handled, but rather his casual reception of the news. To be honest he might as well have been hearing that she’d sent Sully on a mission, rather than that they’d been lost to the Darkness, and she begins to wonder if he's fully understood what she's telling him. Nevertheless she tries to keep the conversation on its expected track; people react to the loss of a loved one in different ways, after all, and perhaps the full realisation will hit him later. She moves quickly on from the usual expressions of sympathy and deals with the practical considerations.

“Do you know what they would have wanted to have happen to their things - their personal effects?”.

“You mean, did they leave a will? I doubt it. They hardly had anything to leave, and they never mentioned anything to me.”.

Still that matter-of-fact calmness, as if they’re discussing some mundane mission report. _Strange_, she muses silently. _Does he know something we don’t? _Out loud she simply says, “I see. If there was anything, the Drifter probably has it now. Perhaps you’d like to see about getting it back from him one of these days.”.

She can’t quite keep the bitter edge out of her voice, and Maas looks at her keenly. If Sully could be here, he just knows they’d be signing at him right now from behind her back. _She wants you to go and confront him_, they’d be saying. _She wants him to know she hasn’t forgotten him_. Whoa, is that some of their people-reading skills finally rubbing off on him,? They’d be proud - the thought makes him smile, to Ikora’s growing astonishment, and he sits back with a shrug.

“If they left it with him, that means he’s supposed to have it. Either that or they plan to come back for it. It’s fine.”.

“If you say so.”, she acknowledges dubiously. Privately she feels it’s the absolute opposite of fine, allowing that swindler to profit in even the most trivial way from a guardian’s premature demise, but she’s wise enough to recognise she’s searching for affirmation of her own feelings. It’s not happening. She moves on to the final topic on her very short list, anxious now to just get this over with.

“We thought maybe a small memorial service might be in order … what do you think?”.

“A memorial - ? God no, they’d hate that.”. He’s openly grinning now. “Unless they could somehow show up and heckle from the back … no, leave it, honestly. There’s no need.”.

She can’t help but smile too; he’s not wrong. She can totally imagine the scene, the wayward hero leaning against the doorjamb with that impish grin and quibbling over the details of their own eulogy, and strangely the mental image doesn’t hurt as much as it should.

There doesn't seem to be anything more to be said after that, so she closes the meeting with one final offer of support, of help, if anybody should be having difficulty dealing with the loss, and Maas hurries off in what looks suspiciously like relief. Ikora waits until the door closes behind hime before she turns to Zavala. He's stayed silent through the whole discussion, other than adding his own condolences and occasional noises of affirmation as Ikora conveyed the news, and now he sits back and regards her with some concern. 

“That was very strange.", she says slowly. "I don’t understand why he’s not more bothered by the Drifter. I knew he was a Gambit regular, but - do you think it’s possible he’s switched loyalties too?”.

“It’s entirely possible.”, he replies judiciously. “But I'm reminded that you once told me, wherever Sully is usually turns out to be where they are supposed to be - and their friends are in the habit of trusting their judgement. I have no more love for the Drifter than you do, but this … does not feel like a Vanguard problem. We have more pressing concerns.”.

It’s the longest speech she’s heard from him in a long while - and how like her fellow Vanguard, to throw her own words back at her when what she needed was a sympathiser - _damn it_. Cayde would have understood … he would have enthusiastically offered to set up the fight, sell tickets, hold her coat. And then she would have had to back down, to laughingly tell him that’s not what she meant and could he please just be serious … she sighs.

“I suppose you’re right. Do we know what he’s doing now?”.

“According to my people, no change. Still in orbit just off the edge of the Reef, all matches scheduled either there or on the Tangled Shore for the next two weeks. He may have shifted venue, but aside from that it seems to be very much business as usual.”.

Ikora’s mouth crimps in brief disdain; business as usual, of course. _Bastard_. 

* * *

Zavala's people have one defining characteristic in common, besides their undoubted competence; they all tend to be direct, linear thinkers with a gift for attention to detail. Some might say, inclined to follow orders to the letter - and rules, even more so. So while they may be diligently watching the Derelict, they possibly could have been paying closer attention to its captain.

To be fair to them, it's virtually unthinkable that he wouldn't be on board. But with his crew at full strength and Jacob at the helm, he’s exercised a unprecedented level of trust and left them to manage Gambit wholesale, taking himself down to the surface and setting up a temporary camp near the most recent series of Taken incursions. It’s hardly ideal as a campsite; a bleak rock just beyond the Watchtower, more Shore than Reef, a wreckers’ paradise littered with ruined Hive craft and debris from ancient collisions - but he promised himself he’d take action, and this is it. It’ll make it easier to move as soon as they get a lead, at the very least, and he finally feels like he’s doing _something_.

All the junk has been playing merry hell with his comms for the past couple of days though, vestiges of dark magic causing whispers at the edge of hearing and setting him even more on edge than usual. Midway through another unsettling, unproductive day he finally manages to clear his head enough to snag a brief power nap, stretched out in his rough shelter with his bedroll bunched up under his head. Not a chance in hell that he’ll actually sleep, but if he can just rest his eyes for a minute …

Just then there’s a muted _tink_ from the sensor; he grimaces and ignores it. It's nothing.

“Drifter, wake up! We have something!”, the ghost exclaims right beside his ear, and he sits straight up with a jolt.

“Seriously?”.

“The sensors just lit up, all of them … and we’ve got coordinates … hurry! We have to get there before the interference kicks in again!”.

_This is it_. He levers himself to his feet and checks his gun swiftly, loading it and spinning the barrel before holstering it again with a determined flourish. Deep in his coat pocket Sully’s Malfeasance knocks against his leg, a comforting reminder that he’s more than adequately armed, and after a moment's consideration he loads that up too before tucking it into his belt as backup.

“Alright then.”, he murmurs, more to himself than to the ghost, and squares his shoulders. “Let’s go get ‘em.”.

* * *

They reach the spot within a few minutes, a scorched circle of earth just like hundreds of others in this place. The whispers are strong here, blue/purple blotches appearing at the edge of his vision, and he recoils as he senses the chill of a liminal barrier. “Taken …” he hisses. “Still a portal here somewhere.”.

‘Right above your head, I’m afraid.” comes the apologetic reply. “That’s where the signal was coming from.”.

He freezes; he’s not above throwing Taken around on this side of the barrier every once in a while, but entering the Ascendant Plane voluntarily is right at the top of his list of things-that-are-never-happening-ever-again. His jaw works as he desperately tries to come up with other options.

“You sure? Might be a trap.”.

“I’m as sure as I can be; I know my guardian’s energy signature.”. The ghost plays a dim light over the area above him, some component of the beam serving to solidify the portal’s presence on this side and make it more obvious to the human eye. “We have to go in there if we want to find them.”.

He steps back hastily, recoiling away from the swirling energy. “I'm not goin’ in there. This can’t be right.”.

The ghost keeps up the energy beam, holding the portal stable, and ruffles its shell determinedly.

“Right or not, I’m detecting their signature, and I’m going in to find out what that means. You can stay out here if you’re so worried. _When_ I find them …”, contempt creeps into the ghost’s tone, “should I tell them where you’re hiding? Or would you prefer I not bother?”.

It slips through the portal without waiting for an answer. Drifter curses softly and with feeling for about ten seconds straight before following. 

* * *

It’s dark on the other side, the signature monochrome and misted backdrop of the Ascendant Plane playing merry hell with his depth perception as he squints around. He stands still for a long moment straining his senses for any hint of hostile activity, but the only movement is about a hundred yards or so ahead, a glimmer of pale light shed by the ghost as it scans from side to side. As he catches up and comes alongside it it turns to look at him briefly. He’s not sure how a small flying robot with no face can look smug, but it definitely does. “Shut up.”, he snarls, and turns to review his surroundings.

Even by Ascendant Plane standards, this place is creepy. Looks like a fortress in the old Earth style, huge blocks of dressed stone in a high curtain wall, an inner keep and courtyard just visible beyond, and a massive tower looming up in the centre. He can’t see any movement beyond the arch they’re heading towards, but of course that’s the whole point of this time-tested layout - funnelling would-be invaders into a handy queue to be picked off one by one by hidden defenders. 

“What is this place?”.

That was more of a rhetorical question, he wasn’t seriously expecting the ghost to know … but it hangs for a second in the air beside him before answering.

“This is where … I mean, it’s a parallel copy of where I found them the first time. When they were resurrected. It was here.”. 

He gapes. “No shit. So, what does that mean?”.

“I guess … this is their place? I don’t know. Bad stuff went down here … ascendant throneworlds usually take the form of something meaningful to the owner, some sort of triumph or ownership, but that must mean … ugh. I don’t know. I don’t know what it means. I don’t like it, though.”

_Yeah, you’n’me both_, he thinks, and draws his handcannon just in case.

The ghost makes a sudden turn away from the arch, heading back down a slight slope, and he automatically follows. Of all the places in this reconstruction, he can’t work out why the spot it’s heading for is significant - it’s just a ditch on the outside of the wall, part of the old defences, entirely empty and uninteresting.

“This is the place. They were down there when I found them the first time.”.

He looks down to where it’s shining a faint light; there’s nothing of interest down there, and he shrugs. “Okay. Can’t see why they’d cling to this place. What happened here?”.

“I told you, I found them.”.

“I got that part, genius. You said ‘bad stuff’. What happened?”.

“Oh … well, this was a while ago, you understand. There was still a rogue warlord here, one of the very last, and a few of his people.”.

“Right. So I’m guessin’ they got in trouble right away?”.

“Well - not exactly. They walked in through that arch, took a weapon off the first person they saw, and then they just - I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s just say, by the time they were done - there weren’t any more warlords.”.

“Holy crap.”, he exclaims, slightly awed. "Wiped out a whole crew of Risen … like, permanently? Just like that?”.

“Just like that.”, the little drone confirms with a distressed twitch of its shell. “'Payback', they said. And when they were done they looted the place for clothes and gear, cool as you please, and started walking. I haven’t told anybody this, you realise.”.

“Yeah, I can see why.”, he mutters. Must have scared the crap out of the ghost, thinking it’d finally found its chosen righteous hero and then having to witness that kind of unprovoked rampage. Would’ve given the Vanguard pause as well, if they’d known about it.

Out of habit, while he mulls that over he does a full turn to check again for danger; there’s still nothing else around, but he’s beginning to feel … watched. The hairs on his arms and neck stand up as the feeling intensifies, and suddenly the ghost moves sharply, turning back in the direction they came.

“Whoa!”, it exclaims, and there … it .. is. A distinctly human shape, a wavering outline of black and grey in the dim light, standing still by the wall and watching them. It looks totally relaxed, not in the least hostile, but behind it there are other shapes appearing through the archway, murmuring and thronging forward as if impatient to start something. It raises a shadowy hand in a ‘halt’ signal and the mass subsides. He freezes; somehow this is more intimidating than if they’d all just rushed him.

He strains his eyes to try and make out its features, but there’s no detail to be seen in the pale oval where its face should be. He could swear it’s her though; that easy stance, the way it holds itself ready, calmly waiting, are all hauntingly familiar. Anxiety tightens his throat momentarily, shading to exasperation - if she’d just told him what she was planning to do, none of this would be necessary, he wouldn’t have had to risk coming in here. He'd have put a stop to it before it even began, no question.

That brief flare of anger is all that’s need to revive his survival instincts and summon his habitual swagger from wherever it was hiding. _Showtime_. He grips his belt casually, as if just looking for somewhere to rest his hands that oh-so-coincidentally happens to be near his gun, and takes a small step closer to the mysterious Taken.

“This is your place, huh? Nice.”. He waves one hand casually at the grandiose scenery. "Who ya gotta kill to get a throne world this size, anyway?”.

He paces casually as he talks, grandstanding, careful not to turn his back on the figure.

“Yeah, anyway, I’m looking for a friend o’mine. Dumbass Titan with a saviour complex, about so high …”, he holds a hand up level with the figure’s head, “mean streak a mile wide - ya seen ‘em?”.

The Taken entity turns slightly, tracking him as he walks and talks. Its watchful silence still doesn’t feel dangerous, it just feels … blank. Are they hearing him? Is he even reaching them? He has no idea; all he knows is that this choking silence needs to be filled.

“Damdest thing, I heard they just walked through a portal to see if it could be done. Heh - to see what’s on the other side!" He laughs sourly at his own joke. "Now I wasn’t there, but it’s exactly the sort of idiot thing they’d do if they thought they’d learn somethin'. But they forgot one thing. They forgot the only way to come back - is if somebody makes ‘em.”.

The figure tilts its head; and suddenly without a word being spoken, without a sound, he understands … she didn’t forget. She _knew_. She left him directions, that sensor array, and she left him the goddam gun because she knew what had to happen. The realisation shuts him up at last, freezing his face in a grimace of horrified respect.

“Shit.”, he whispers. “You just - you always end up bein' the smartest person in the room, don'tcha. So … what now?”.

He seriously wishes he hadn’t asked; as he watches, the figure’s raised hand closes into the ‘ready’ signal - and the horde surges forward.

He reacts instantly, summoning his light and bathing them all in solar energy, cutting down half of them before they get more than a few steps. As the rest reach him he dances back down into the ditch and up the other side, gaining some height and punching any that get close enough to him, watching them dissolve in sparks. Sunspots spring up around him and he moves through them expertly to renew his abilities constantly. He can’t even work out what these are; this many Taken attacking at once would normally be thralls, but these seem to just be vaguely humanoid shadows - no weapons, no claws, just desperate clutching hands. He doesn’t have time to ponder the mystery, just keeps ploughing through the advancing waves until the remaining few turn away and fade from sight; the flames die down and everything fades to silence and monochrome again.

He spins around in the sudden emptiness to check for danger behind him, but there’s nothing. 

The ghost cautiously buzzes back over to him. “Are you ok? Are you hurt?”.

He frowns as he checks himself over, astonished to find he’s unharmed. “Nah. None of ‘em touched me.”. He’s shaken though, he’ll freely admit.

“It was a privilege to see you in action.”. The ghost sounds almost amused.

“What? Now ain’t the time, ghost.”. He stares, wondering what’s got into it.

“Uh … that wasn’t me …” the ghost wavers, and with a start he realises there’s one more figure in front of him again, up by the arch where he first saw them. The ghost’s - other - voice comes again.

“Time to finish the job.”.

It sounds terse, commanding … _oh fuck that’s her isn't it_, her voice when she speaks through the little drone. He’s still not over the fact that she can apparently just take charge of its speech circuits like that, it’s unsettling on any normal day and in this place it’s downright terrifying. He finds his voice after a couple of false starts.

“Wha ... you mean what I think you mean?”.

The figure shrugs and turns away, and he panics. “No!” he shouts, and leaps across the space between them, summoning his light … nothing happens. He’s depleted, and nowhere close to recovery yet. The figure halts, waiting, and he closes his eyes in despair, raising his gun.

No. _Her_ gun, the Malfeasance. It’s in his hand already, must have grabbed it during the fight. As he aims it at the figure's head it raises its arms in leisurely surrender, and he wavers.

“Just finish it.”.

The voice comes again and he tenses, letting off five rounds in quick succession, point blank. The shots ring out, obscenely loud in the silence but at the same time swallowed up by the deadening mists … the figure’s head snaps back with the impact, then it collapses and rolls heavily into the ditch. He lets out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, on the edge of hysteria, and drops to his knees, frantically peering over the edge … the trench is empty. His heart twists as he realises what he’s done. _No … no, not like this, please not like this_ … But there’s no sign of her, no trace of anything at the bottom of the hole.

He rests back on his haunches and stares across at nothing, breathing shakily.

“The portal is closing. There’s an exit just over there. We have to move.”.

He snaps, taking out his grief and anger on the nearest target. “Fuck that! That’s all you gotta say? We just gunned down your guardian after weeks of searchin', and that’s all you got?”.

The ghost shakes from side to side, clearly distressed but resolute. “We did what they asked us to do, and now we have to go. Come on!”.

He rises unwillingly to his feet and staggers in the direction of the exit portal, fighting furious tears the whole way. Following the ghost’s dim light, he steps through and immediately drops several feet to the ground on the other side, landing in a heap with a blistering string of swearwords.

As he scrambles to his feet he looks around - they’re in a totally different place to where they came in, a bare stretch of dusty rock with no ships in sight.

‘Where the fuck are we now?” he demands furiously; the ghost swivels as it scans the landscape to get its bearings.

“This way.”.

It answered the question he didn’t ask, but he lets that pass as he sees what caught its attention - in the distance there's a slight dip in the ground, dust pluming up into the air around it as if something just disturbed it. He impatiently backhands the traces of moisture off his cheeks and follows.


	49. Through the Looking Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “When can I get out?”.  
WHEN YOU FIND THE ONE THAT’S REAL.   
“Is this a trick question?”.  
NO.  
Granny looked down at herself.  
“This one.”, she said.
> 
> ― Terry Pratchett, Witches Abroad

The light out here hurts their eyes. It’s too bright, too much, and the faint glittering haze in the air makes it hard to see any distance. The frigid breeze drives the dust up into their face, minuscule particles finding their way to every cut and bruise, and they instinctively curl up and cover their head again. Can't they just stay here for a bit longer? Just until the nausea passes, until the wind dies down a bit? Just five more minutes.

_we need to move_

That inner voice is firm. Unequivocal. It sounds like … somebody. Somebody who’s usually right, however annoying.

_it’s too cold to lie around on the floor_

_get moving_

They cautiously uncover their face, blinking away the particles of grit. There’s nothing here, and nobody, and what are they even supposed to do now? They have no clothes, no gear, and the tiny pocket of warmth trapped under their body is all the comfort they have right now.

_we have to move_

_it’s not safe here_

They grimace at that, dark amusement twisting their face. It’s not safe_ anywhere, _not any more, although right now they’re not sure why_._

But they roll unwillingly to their feet anyway and look about them for a weapon. Why? Because, that’s why. It’s not precisely a memory, but the knowledge that most dangers can be subdued with a blunt instrument is in their head somehow. A sharp instrument, even better, but let’s work with what’s to hand.

Right now their options seem to include rocks, or larger rocks. At least there are plenty of those, scattered at their feet.

Scrambling footsteps appear suddenly just beyond the rise, loose stones skittering down the slope towards them signalling something approaching, and a rock is in their hand before they realise they’d even made their selection. It fits their hand perfectly, one domed side nestling in their palm and the tapering point facing out to discourage … what? Anything with a skull it prefers to keep intact, certainly, which covers the vast majority of possible threats. It'll do. Their other hand curls into a fist; they don’t notice the flames licking out from between their fingers and up their arm.

But the other sees it as it comes over the rise, and skids to a halt. It has a faint outline of sullen red light, a halo almost, flickering around its form. That means it's on the wrong side, just like them. An ally ...?

Too soon to tell.

“Hey.”, it says, holding perfectly still and eyeing the makeshift arsenal at their feet. It’s just a noise, but it sounds like a friendly greeting. It’s muffled in layers and layers of clothing, a long coat swirling around its legs, a hood covering its head. A gun at its belt. They could really use that coat right now, that hood, that gun. They shift their grip on the rock ever-so-slightly, calculating angles.

The other lowers the hood, taking care not to move too fast, and it’s looking at them so intently, like they should be reacting right now and it doesn’t know why they’re not. It looks wounded, baffled, at their lack of movement. It looks ... sad.

_do we remember what ‘sad’ is? _

_yes_

_it’s what we make people, even when we try so hard not to_

“Hey …”. It speaks again. “Put the rock down, hero. We ain’t here to fight.”.

That voice is familiar - the coaxing tone, the smooth timbre. It sounds almost - safe ... _do we remember what ‘safe' is?_

_safe is - is - _

_safe is the people who take us as we are_

But they keep hold of the rock, nonetheless. Too soon to trust.

It comes closer, step by cautious step, and there’s a mechanical thing <your ghost> floating beside it and it’s firing something at them <just a scan for injuries, relax> and there’s yet another voice in their head, like it wasn’t crowded enough in here already, and suddenly the light flares and the flames burn and they hiss like a cornered animal, lifting their hand in bewilderment and shaking the solar energy from their fingertips.

<It’s just your light, it can’t hurt you. Would you keep still … ? I need to check you over.>

They tense suspiciously, but it’s clear the scan isn’t harmful in any way. They go back to watching the other one, the ‘it’, the potential ally/threat. It has a name, they think, trembling on the tip of their tongue. No - no, it has a job description, they suddenly remember, and for some reason that makes them want to smile.

<Guardian.>

No response; they're still watching the other guardedly. The ghost hovers around in front of them, trying to get into their line of sight. 

"Eyes up, guardian!”.

The sharp command startles them; their head whips up to stare at the ghost, eyes widening.

“Are they okay? Seem a little out of it.”, the other murmurs from just beyond arms length.

“They’re not one hundred percent back with us … on the bright side, they haven’t tried to kill you yet. You should have seen their first resurrection. No hesitation.”.

“Yeah, I guess that’s somethin’.”, it acknowledges with a twisted smile, and it comes closer still. That grin, the way it quirks its mouth and crinkles the corners of its eyes, that's better. Good to look at. Borderline infectious, even. The sadness is still there though, some subtle trace in the depths of its eyes, like it’s nursing some ancient hurt. That’s the look of _a man, yes, not a thing_ a man who knows rejection, who’s resigned to being rejected again and is just waiting to pretend it was all a joke and it never really mattered.

And the man has a name.

“_Eli_.”, they say uncertainly, a frown twitching their brows together for just a second. Their voice grates from disuse, so quiet they’re not sure they actually formed the word right. But ... he hears.

He stands stock still for a second before shrugging off his long coat, stepping forward and sweeping it around them, wrapping them up and holding it firmly closed around them against the cold. When they’re finally covered he looks down into their face, blinking away something in his eye, and breathes out shakily.

“That’s me.”, he says; and he wraps his arms around them, tucking their head under his chin and cradling them fiercely like they’re his one true salvation. “Welcome back.”. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forty-nine chapters feels like a lot. It was never supposed to get to this many, but now it is - well, it's seven sevens, isn't it. A magic number.
> 
> This would be an awesome place to end this fic, to archive or delete all the extra lore and back story I wrote and then left out because it didn't quite fit the way the story was going. So I'm going to take a break for a while while I think about whether to pull all that together into a new story, make a new OC, or just leave it altogether. Opinions welcome, obviously.
> 
> All you lovely people who kept me going with comments and feedback and kudos, you should know you all are the reason this thing happened at all. Thank you so much for investing your time in letting me know how much you enjoyed it.


End file.
